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WILEY  AND  PUTNAM'S 

LIBRARY  OF 

AMERICAN    BOOKS 


THE   ALPS   AND    THE    RHINE. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with'funding  from 

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http://www.archive.org/details/alpsrhineseriesoOOheadrich 


THE    ALPS 


AND 


THE    RHINE 


A    SERIES   OF    SKETCHES 

)  ' — *-^  ^ 

Jjibranj. 


J.  T.  HEADLEY. 


P^  California' 


NEW  YORK : 
WILEY  AND  PUTNAM,  161  BROADWAY. 

1845. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1845,  by 

WILEY  &  PUTNAM, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of  New- York. 


y/v7 


R.  Ckaiohbad's  Power  Press. 
112  Fulton  Street 


T.  B.  Smith,  Stereotyper, 
216  William  Street 


TO 

E.  C.  BENEDICT,  ESQ., 

OF   NEW    TORK, 

THESE     SKETCHES 

ARE    AFFECTIONATELY    INSCRIBED    BY 

HIS    FRIEND    AND    RELATIVE, 

THE    AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS 


PAOB 

Introduction, vii 

Chapter  I. — Pass  of  the  Simplon,  Gorge  of  Gondo,      .         .         .         .  1 

II. — Passes  of  the  Forclaz  and  Col  de  Balme,           ...  7 

'  III. — Ascent  of  the  Montanverte,  Vale  of  Chamouni,        .         .  13 

IV.— Pass  of  the  Tete  Noire, 19 

v.— Baths  of  Leuk, 23 

IV. — The  Castle  of  Chillon.     Geneva.    Junction  of  the  Rhone 

and  Arve, 26 

VII. — Freybourg  Organ  and  Bridges.     Swiss  Peculiarities,          .  33 

VIII. — Interlachen,  Pass  of  the  Wengern  Alp,  Byron's  Manfred,  39 

IX. — The  Grand  Scheideck  :  an  Avalanche,     ....  46 

X. — ^Valley  of  Meyringen.     Pass  of  Brunig 51 

XI. — Suwarrow's  Passage  of  the  Pragel, 55 

XII. — Macdonald's  Pass  of  the  Splugen, 60 

XIII.— The  Righi  Culm,      .        .        .        ...        .        .        .70 

XIV.— Goldau— Fall  of  the  Rossberg, 76 

'      XV. — Avalanches  and  Glaciers,  their  Formation  and  Movement,  81 

*  XVI, — Pasturages,  Chalets,  and  Alpine  Passes,    ....  86 

XVII.— A  Farewell  to  Switzerland—Basle,           ....  90 

XVIII.— Strasbourg— The  Rhine— Frankfort,         ....  94 

XIX.— A  Day  in  Wiesbaden, 99 

XX. — Schwalbach  and  Schlagenbad, 106 

XXI.— Mayence— The  Rhine, Ill 

XXII.— The  Castellated  Rhine, 115 

XXIII.— The  Rhine  from  Coblentz  to  Cologne,       .         .         .         .121 

XXIV. — Rhine  Wines,* Cologne  Cathedral,  Louvain,  Brussels,         .  126 

XXV.— Battle-field  of  Waterloo,          .                 ....  131 


INTRODUCTION 


In  the  present  work  I  have  not  designed  to  make  a  book 
of  travels,  but  give  a  series  of  sketches  of  the  Alpine  portion 
of  Switzerland,  and  the  scenery  along  the  Rhine.  In  writing 
of  Switzerland,  I  have  omitted  almost  altogether  notices  of 
the  character  of  the  people,  except  of  those  occupying  the 
valleys  of  the  Alps.  Neither  have  I  spoken  of  the  chief  cities 
and  towns  of  the  country,  except  to  make  a  passing  remark. 
I  excluded  all  such  matter,  because  I  wished,  if  possible,  to 
give  a  definite  idea  of  the  scenery  of  the  Alps.  Having  an 
unconquerable  desire  from  my  boyhood  to  see  the  land  of 
Tell  and  Winkelried,  I  had  read  everything  I  could  lay  hold 
of,  that  would  give  me  clear  conceptions  of  the  wonderful 
scenery  it  embraces,  yet  I  found  that  my  imagination  had 
never  approached  the  reality. 

Hoping  to  do  what  others  had  failed  in  accomplishing,  I 
confess,  was  the  motive  in  my  attempting  these  sketches. 
It  always  seemed  strange  to  me,  that  such  marked,  stri- 
king features  in  natural  scenery  could  fail  of  being  caught 
and  described.  Such  bold  outlines,  and  such  distinct  fig- 
ures, it  seemed  a  mere  pastime  to  reproduce  before  the  eye. 
And  even  now,  of  all  the  distinct  things  memory  recalls, 
none  appear  more  clear  and  definite  than  the  scenes  of 
the  Alps.  But,  notwithstanding  all  this,  I  need  not  add  that 
I  am  as  much  dissatisfied  with  my  own  efforts  as  with  those 
of  others.     The  truth  is,  the  Alps  are  too  striking  and  grand 


INTRODUCTION. 


to  be  described.  We  get  a  definite  idea  of  very  few  things  in 
the  world  we  have  never  seen,  by  mere  naked  details.  This 
is  especially  true  of  those  objects  that  excite  emotion.  It  is 
by  comparing  them  to  more  familiar  and  greater  things,  that 
we  conceive  them  properly.  Indeed,  the  imagination  is  gen- 
erally so  much  weaker  than  the  bodily  eye,  that  exaggeration 
is  required  to  bring  up  the  perceptive  faculties  to  the  proper 
point. 

But  the  Alps  have  nothing  beyond  them — nothing  greater 
with  which  to  compare  them.  They  alone  can  illustrate 
themselves.  Comparisons  diminish  them,  and  figures  of 
speech  only  confuse  the  mind.  This  I  believe  to  be  the  rea- 
son why  every  one  becomes  dissatisfied  with  his  own  descrip- 
tions. To  give  lofty  conceptions  of  mountain  scenery  before, 
he  has  been  accustomed  to  call  it  Alpine.  The  Alps  are 
called  in  to  illustrate  all  other  mountains  and  lofty  peaks,  and 
hence  when  he  comes  to  describe  the  former,  he  is  at  loss  for 
metaphors  and  comparisons.  The  words  grand,  awful,  sub- 
lime, haVe  been  used  to  describe  scenery  so  far  inferior  to  that 
which  now  meets  his  eye,  that  he  would  reject  them  as  weak 
and  expressionless,  were  there  any  others  he  could  employ. 
I  have  never  felt  the  need  of  stronger  Saxon  more  than  when 
standing  amid  the  chaos  of  an  Alpine  abyss,  or  looking  off 
from  the  summit  of  an  Alpine  peak.  Like  the  attempt  to  ut- 
ter a  man's  deepest  emotions,  words  for  the  time  shock  him. 
I  am  aware  this  may  be  attributed  to  a  sensitive  imagination. 
Some  may  boast  that  they  have  stood  perfectly  tranquil,  and 
at  their  ease  in  every  part  of  the  Alps.  I  envy  not  such  a  man 
his  self-possession,  nor  his  tranquil  nature.  He  who  can  wan- 
der through  the  Oberland  without  being  profoundly  moved, 
and  feeling  as  Coleridge  did  when  he  lifted  his  hymn  in  the 
vale  of  Chamouni,  need  not  fear  that  he  will  ever  be  greatly 


INTRODUCTION.  vu 


excited,  either  by  the  grand  or  beautiful  with  which  God  has 
clothed  the  world. 

The  Rhine  I  have  passed  over  more  hastily,  and  devoted 
less  space  to  it,  because  its  scenes  are  more  familiar,  as  well 
as  more  tame.  If  I  shall  add  to  the  reader's  conceptions  of 
Alpine  scenery — give  any  more  vivid  ideas  of  its  amazing 
grandeur,  more  definite  outlines  to  those  wonderful  forms  of 
nature,  I  shall  have  accomplished  my  purpose.  My  object 
in  grouping,  as  I  have,  the  most  remarkable  objects  together, 
to  the  exclusion  of  every  thing  else,  was,  if  possible,  to  do 
this.     Still  they  must  be  seen  to  be  known. 


THE    ALPS   AND    THE    RHINE. 


PASS  OF  THE  SIMPLON,  GORGE  OF  GONDO. 

Coming  from  the  warm  air  of  the  South,  the  first  sight  of  the 
Alps  gave  a  spring  to  my  blood  it  had  not  felt  for  years.  Egypt 
and  Palestine  I  had  abandoned,  and  weary  and  depressed,  I  turn- 
ed as  a  last  resort  to  the  Alps  and  their  glorious  scenery.  As  I 
came  on  to  Lake  Maggiore,  I  was,  as  we  should  say  at  home, 
"  down  sick."     A  severe  cold  accompanied  with  fever  rendered 

me  as  indifferent  to  the  scenery  the  evening  I  approached as 

if  I  were  on  the  confines  of  a  desert.  But  the  morning  found  me 
myself  again,  and  the  clear  lake  coming  from  under  the  feet  of 
the  everlasting  Alps,  and  peeping  out  into  the  valley  as  if  to  see 
how  the  plains  of  Lombardy  looked,  was  as  welcome  as  the  face 
of  a  friend.  Born  myself  amid  mountains,  I  had  loved  them 
from  boyhood.  I  looked  out  from  our  carriage  on  the  Borromean 
Isles,  terraced  up  in  the  form  of  a  pyramid  from  the  water,  with 
their  dark  fringe  of  cypresses,  without  one  wish  to  visit  them.  I 
did  not  care  whether  they  were  an  "  espece  de  creation"  or  " a 
huge  perigord  pie  stuck  round  with  woodcocks  and  partridges." 
The  soft  air  revived  me,  and  the  breeze  that  stooped  down  from 
the  snow  summits  of  the  Alps,  that  glittered  far  up  in  the  clear 
heavens  before  me,  was  like  a  new  fountain  of  blood  opened  in 
my  system.  I  left  the  carriage,  and  wandered  off*  to  the  quarries 
of  pink  granite  among  the  mountains.  After  listening  awhile  to 
the  clink  of  the  miner's  hammer,  far  up  in  the  breast  of  the  rock, 
and  gathering  a  few  crystals,  I  returned  to  the  lake,  and  passing 
directly  underneath  a  mountain  of  stone,  from  whose  summit 

2 


DOMO   D'OSOLA. 


workmen  were  blasting  rocks  that  fell  with  the  noise  of  thunder 
into  the  road,  sending  their  huge  fragments  over  into  the  lake, — 
rejoined  the  carriage  at  a  dirty  inn.  The  crystal-like  clearness 
of  the  water,  and  the  mountains  around,  reminded  me  of  the  wild- 
er parts  of  the  Delaware,  where  I  had  hooked  many  a  trout,  and 
thinking  they  ought  to  be  found  on  such  gravelly  bottoms,  I  en- 
quired of  the  landlord  if  I  could  have  trout  for  dinner.  He  re- 
plied yes,  and  when  the  speckled  fish  was  brought  on  the  table,  it 
was  like  the  sight  of  an  old  friend.  The  flesh,  however,  did  not 
have  the  freshness  and  flavour  of  those  caught  in  our  mountain 
streams.  It  may  have  been  owing  to  the  cooking,  probably  it  was. 
After  dinner  we  started  up  the  narrow  valley  that  leads  to  the 
foot  of  the  Simplon.  It  was  as  lovely  an  afternoon  as  ever  made 
the  earth  smile.  Gray,  barren  pyramids  of  rock  pierced  the  clear 
heavens  on  either  side,  while  the  deep  quiet  of  the  valley  was 
broken  only  by  the  brawling  streamlet  that  sparkled  through  it. 
Here  and  there  was  a  small  meadow  spot  from  which  the  dwarf- 
ish peasantry  were  harvesting  the  hay.  Women  performed  the 
office  of  team  and  cart.  A  huge  basket  that  would  hold  nearly 
as  much  as  an  ordinary  hay-cock,  was  filled,  when  a  woman  in- 
serted herself  into  straps  fastened  to  it,  and  taking  it  on  her  back  ; 
walked  away  with  it. 

As  it  takes  twelve  good  hours  to  cross  the  Simplon,  travellers 
are  compelled  to  stop  over  night  at  Domo  D'Osola,  the  last  village 
before  the  ascent  commences.  I  will  not  describe  the  dirty  town 
with  its  smell  of  garlic,  nor  the  "  red-capped,"  "  mahogany-leg- 
ged," lazy  lazzaroni  that  lounged  through  the  street.  Only  one 
thing  interested  me  in  it.  There  is  a  hill  ne^r  by  called  Calvary, 
with  small  white  buildings  stationed  at  intervals  from  the  bottom 
to  the  top.  Each  of  these  is  occupied  with  terra-cotta  (earthen) 
figures  representing  our  Saviour  in  the  different  stages  of  his  suflTer- 
ings ; — from  the  trial  before  Pilate,  to  the  last  agony  on  the  cross. 
Through  an  iron  grating  I  looked  in  upon  the  strange  groups, 
amid  which,  on  the  earth-floor,  were  scattered  cents  and  fifths  of 
cents ; — ^thrown  there  by  the  faithful.  In  one,  the  ceiling  of  the 
building  was  concave,  and  painted  blue  to  represent  heaven.  On 
this  angels  were  painted  large  as  life,  and  represented  as  hovering 
over  the  suffering  Christ — while  they  had — babies  and  all — white 


PASS  OF  THE  SIMPLON,  GORGE  OF  GONDO.  3 

handkerchiefs  in  their  hands,  which  they  held  to  their  eyes  quite 
a  la  mode.  It  did  not  strike  me  at  first  as  so  odd  that  they  should 
use  handkerchiefs  in  heaven,  as  that  such  beggarly-looking  an- 
gels could  afford  such  nice  white  ones. 

But  the  Simplon.  Nature,  that  wore  the  day  before,  her  loveli- 
est, had  now  put  on  her  angriest  aspect.  A  more  glorious  to-mor- 
row was  never  promised  to  man,  than  the  sun  uttered  as  he  went 
down  at  evening  amid  the  Alps.  There  was  not  a  cloud  to  dim 
his  brightness,  while  the  transparent  atmosphere  and  the  deep  blue 
sky  seemed  dreaming  of  anything  but  clouds  and  mists.  But 
who  can  foretell  the  whim  of  an  Alpine  sky  !  As  we  entered  the 
mountains  the  day  grew  dark,  and  from  the  deep  gorge  that  pierc- 
ed their  heart,  the  mist  boiled  out  like  the  foam  of  a  waterfall. 
Clouds  veiled  the  giant  peaks  around,  and  the  rain  came  down  as 
if  that  were  its  sole  business  for  the  day.  The  torrent  had  car- 
ried away  the  road  in  some  places,  and  we  rolled  slowly  over  the 
bed  of  the  stream.  At  length  we  entered  the  gorge  of  Gondo,  one 
of  the  most  savage  and  awful  in  the  Alps.  This  day  it  was  ren- 
dered doubly  so  by  the  black  Alpine  storm  that  swept  through  it. 
The  road  was  here  squeezed  into  the  narrowest  space,  while  the 
perpendicular  rocks  rose  out  of  sight  into  the  rain-clouds  on  either 
side,  and  the  fretting  torrent  struggled  through  its  torn  channel 
far  below.  The  gallery  of  Gondo,  cut  596  feet  through  the  solid 
rock,  opens  like  a  cavern  over  this  gulf.  Stand  here  a  minute 
and  look  down  the  gorge.  Those  perpendicular  walls  of  nature 
pierce  the  heavens  so  high,  that  but  a  narrow  strip  of  tossing 
clouds  is  visible,  as  the  blast  puffs  away  for  a  moment  the  mist 
that  wrapped  them  in  such  close  embrace.  A  waterfall  is  sound- 
ing in  your  ears,  covering  the  breast  of  the  hill  with  foam,  and 
filling  the  cavern  with  the  sullen  sound  of  thunder.  Torrents 
leaping  from  the  mountain  tops,  vanish  in  spray  before  they  strike 
the  bottom.  The  clouds  roll  through  the  gorge,  and  knock  against 
the  walls  that  hem  them  in  ;  and  then  catching  the  down-sweeping 
gust,  spring  over  their  tops,  revealing  for  a  moment  the  head  of  a 
black  crag  far  up  where  you  thought  the  sky  to  be,  and  then  dashing 
over  its  face  wrap  it  again  in  deeper  gloom.  All  around  is  hor- 
ribly wild — the  howl  of  the  storm — the  hissing  of  the  blast  around 
the  cliffs — the  roar  of  countless  cataracts,  and  the  hoarse  voice  of 


AN  AVALANCHE. 


the  distracted  waters  that  rush  on,  and  the  awful  solitude  and 
strength  that  hem  you  in — make  the  soul  stagger  and  shrink  back 
in  unwonted  fear  and  awe.  Nature  and  God  seem  one — Power 
and  Sublimity  their  only  attributes,  and  these  everlasting  peaks 
their  only  dwelling-place.  I  would  let  the  carriage,  that  looked 
like  a  mere  toy  among  these  giant  forms  of  nature,  disappear 
among  the  rolling  mist,  and  then  stand  on  a  beetling  crag  and  listen. 
It  was  the  strangest,  wildest  music  my  soul  ever  bowed  to,  and 
the  voices  that  spoke  so  loudly  around  me  had  such  an  accent 
and  power  that  my  heart  stood  still  in  my  bosom.  I  grew  ner- 
vous there  alone,  and  felt  as  if  I  had  not  room  to  breathe.  Just 
then,  turning  my  eye  up  the  gorge,  the  clouds  parted  over  a  smooth 
snow-field  that  lay,  white  and  calm,  leagues  away  against  the 
heavens.  Oh,  it  was  a  relief  to  know  there  was  one  calm  thing 
amid  that  distracted  scene — one  bosom  the  tempest  could  not  ruf- 
fle :  it  told  of  a  Deity  ruling  serene  and  tranquil  above  his  works 
and  laws. 

As  we  approached  the  summit,  the  snow  increased  in  depth. 
In  one  place  the  road  passed  directly  through  an  old  avalanche 
cut  out  like  a  tunnel.  These  avalanches  have  paths  they  travel 
regularly  as  deer.  The  shape  of  the  mountains  decides  the  di- 
rection they  shall  take,  and  hence  enables  the  traveller  to  know 
when  he  is  in  danger.  They  also  always  give  premonitions  of 
their  fall.  Before  they  start  there  is  a  low  humming  sound  in 
the  air,  which  the  practised  ear  can  detect  in  a  moment.  If  you 
are  in  the  path  of  avalanches  when  this  mysterious  warning  is  pass- 
ing through  the  atmosphere,  you  cannot  make  too  good  use  of  your 
legs.  A  few  days  before  we  passed,  the  diligence  was  broken 
into  fragments  by  one  of  these  descending  masses  of  snow.  As 
it  was  struggling  through  the  deep  drifts  right  in  front  of  one  of 
those  gorges  where  avalanches  fall,  the  driver  heard  this  low  ring- 
ing sound  in  the  hills  above  him.  Springing  from  his  seat,  he 
threw  open  the  door,  crying,  "  Run  for  your  life  !  an  avalanche  ! 
an  avalanche  !"  and  drawing  his  knife  he  severed  the  traces  of 
the  horses,  and  bringing  them  a  blow  with  his  whip,  sprang  ahead. 
AH  this  was  the  work  of  a  single  minute ;  the  next  minute  the 
diligence  was  in  fragments,  crushed  and  buried  by  the  headlong 
mass. 


PASS  OF  THE  SIMPLON,  GORGE  OF  GONDO.  5 

The  top  of  the  Simplon  is  a  dreary  field  of  snow  and  ice,  gird- 
ed round  with  drearier  rocks.  The  hospice  is  large  and  com- 
fortable, and  does  credit  to  its  founder,  Bonaparte ;  and  the  Prior 
is  a  fat,  very  handsome,  and  good-natured  man.  I  had  a  reg- 
ular romp  with  one  of  the  San  Bernard  dogs,  who  would  run  and 
leap  on  me  like  a  tiger,  barking  furiously  as  he  came,  but  harm- 
less as  a  kitten  in  his  frolics.  To  amuse  us,  the  Prior  let  out  four 
of  them  from  their  confinement.  No  sooner  did  they  find  them- 
selves free,  than  they  dashed  down  the  steps  of  the  hospice,  and 
bounding  into  the  snow,  made  the  top  of  the  Simplon  ring  again  with 
their  furious  barkings.  After  we  had  wandered  over  the  build- 
ing awhile,  and  made  enquiries  respecting  lost  travellers  in  win- 
ter, the  good  Prior  set  before  us  some  bread  and  a  bottle  of  wine, 
from  which  we  refreshed  ourselves  and  prepared  to  depart.  We 
had  scarcely  begun  to  descend  towards  the  Vallais,  when  I  dis- 
covered, straight  down  through  the  gorge,  a  little  village  with  its 
roofs  and  church  spire,  looking  like  a  miniature  town  there  at  the 
end  and  bottom  of  the  abyss.  Confident  there  was  no  town  be- 
tween the  top  of  the  Simplon  and  Brieg,  lying  nearly  twenty 
miles  distant  at  the  base,  and  thinking  this  could  not  be  that  town, 
sunk  there  apparently  within  rifle-shot  of  where  I  stood,  I  enquired 
of  the  vetturino  what  place  it  was.  "  Brieg,"  he  replied.  "  Brieg  ?" 
I  exclaimed :  "  why  that  is  six  hours'  drive  from  here,  and  I  can 
almost  throw  a  stone  in  that  place."  ''  You  will  find  it  far  enough 
before  we  get  there,"  he  replied,  and  with  that  we  trotted  on. 
Backwards  and  forwards,  now  running  along  the  edge  of  a  gulf 
deep  into  the  mountains  and  under  overhanging  glaciers,  till  it 
grew  narrow  enough  to  let  a  bridge  be  thrown  across ;  and  now 
shooting  out  on  to  some  projecting  point  that  looked  down  on  shud- 
dering depths,  the  road  wound  like  a  snake  in  its  diflicult  pas- 
sage among  the  rocks.  Houses  of  refuge  occur  at  short  intervals 
to  succour  the  storm-caught  traveller ;  and  over  the  road,  as  it  cuts 
the  breast  of  some  steep  hill  that  shows  an  unbroken  sheet  of 
snow,  up — up,  till  the  summit  seems  lost  in  the  heavens,  are 
thrown  arches  on  which  the  avalanches  may  slide  over  into  the 
gulf  below.  Over  some  of  these  arches  torrents  were  now  roar- 
ing from  the  melting  mass  above.  Calm  glaciers  on  high,  and 
angry  torrents  below ;  white  snow-fields  covering  thousands  of 


THE  VALLAIS. 


acres  on  distant  mountain-tops,  and  wrecks  of  avalanches,  crush- 
ed at  the  base  of  the  precipice  on  which  you  stand ;  fill  the 
mind  with  a  succession  of  feelings  that  can  never  be  recalled  or 
expressed.  It  seems  as  if  nature  tried  to  overwhelm  the  awe- 
struck and  humbled  man  in  her  presence,  by  crowding  scene 
after  scene  of  awful  magnificence  upon  him. 

We  stopped  at  Brieg  all  night  in  a  most  contemptible  inn.  It  was 
some  fete  day  or  other  of  the  thousand  and  one  Catholic  saints,  and 
the  streets  were  strewed  with  evergreens,  while  nearly  every  second 
man  had  a  sprig  in  his  hat.  The  streets  were  filled  with  peasantry 
sauntering  lazily  about  in  the  evening  air,  and  I  leaned  from  my 
window  and  watched  them  as  supper  was  cooking.  There  a  group 
went  loitering  about  singing  some  careless  song  I  could  not  un- 
derstand, while  nearer  by  were  two  peasants,  a  young  man  and 
maiden,  with  their  arms  around  each  other's  waists,  strolling  silent- 
ly along  in  the  increasing  twilight. 

At  Brieg  you  enter  on  the  Vallais  and  follow  the  Rhone  on  its 
tranquil  course  for  Lake  Leman.  Its  waters  were  yet  turbid 
from  their  long  struggle  in  the  mountains,  and  flowed  heavily 
through  the  valley.  Along  this  we  trotted  all  day,  and  stopped 
at  night  at  Sion.  If  Mount  Sion  in  Jerusalem  is  not  a  better 
place  than  this,  the  Arabs  are  welcome  to  it.  The  falls  of 
Tourtemagne,  which  you  pass  on  the  road,  are  very  beautiful, 
from  the  curve  and  swing  of  the  descending  water,  caused  by  the 
peculiar  shape  of  the  rocks :  and  those  of  Sallenche  grand  and 
striking.  The  long  single  leap  of  the  torrent  is  120  feet,  and  as 
you  stand  under  it,  the  descending  water  has  the  appearance  of 
the  falling  fragments  of  a  rocket  after  it  has  burst.  The  spray 
that  boils  from  its  feet  rises  like  a  cloud,  and  drifting  down  the 
fields,  passes  like  a  fog  over  the  road. 


FORCLAZ  AND  COL  DE  BALM. 


II. 

PASSES  OP  THE  FORCLAZ  AND  COL  DE  BALM. 


From  Martigny,  where  we  arrived  at  noon  from  Sion,  a  mule 
path  leads  over  the  Forclaz,  from  which  one  can  look  back  on 
the  whole  valley  of  the  Rhone,  one  of  the  most  picturesque  views 
in  Switzerland.  After  following  a  while  the  route  of  Bonaparte's 
army,  on  its  march  from  Martigny  across  the  San  Bernard,  we 
turned  off  to  the  right,  and  began  to  ascend  the  Forclaz.  Here 
I  first  tested  the  world-renowned  qualities  of  the  mule,  amid  the 
Alpine  passes;  and  I  must  say  I  did  not  find  the  one  I  was  on 
so  very  trustworthy.  Passing  along  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  I 
thought  he  went  unnecessarily  near  the  edge,  but  concluding  he 
knew  his  own  business  best,  I  let  him  take  his  own  way.  Sud- 
denly his  hinder  foot  slipped  over — he  fell  back,  struggled  a  mo- 
ment, while  a  cry  of  alarm  burst  from  my  companions  behind — 
rallied,  and  passed  on  demurely  as  ever.  For  a  few  moments 
it  was  a  question  of  considerable  doubt  whether  I  was  to  have  a 
roll  with  my  mule  some  hundred  feet  into  the  torrent  below,  with 
the  fair  prospect  of  a  broken  neck  and  a  mangled  carcase,  or 
cross  the  Forclaz.  I  learned  one  lesson  by  it,  however,  never  to 
surrender  my  own  judgment  again,  not  even  to  a  mule.  We  at 
length  descended  into  the  very  small  hamlet  of  Trient,  nestled 
down  among  the  pines.  After  refreshing  ourselves  after  a  most 
primitive  fashion,  with  some  plain  white  pine  boards,  nailed  together 
som.ething  after  the  manner  of  a  workman's  bench  for  a  table,  I  told 
our  guide  I  must  cross  the  Col  de  Balm.  He  replied  it  was  impos- 
sible. "  No  one,"  said  he,  "  has  crossed  it  this  year  except  the 
mountaineer  and  hunter.  The  path  by  which  travellers  always 
cross  it  is  utterly  impassable ;  not  even  a  chamois  hunter  could 


A  FEARFUL  GUIDE. 


follow  it ;  besides,  it  rained  last  night,  which  has  nriade  the  snow  so 
soft,  one  would  sink  in  leg-deep  at  every  step,  and  I  cannot  at- 
tempt it."  This  was  a  damper,  for  I  had  thought  more  of  making 
this  pass  than  any  other  in  the  Alps.  Still,  I  was  fully  resolved 
to  do  it,  if  it  was  in  the  reach  of  possibility,  because  from  its  sum- 
mit was  said  to  be  one  of  the  finest  views  in  the  world.  So  walk- 
ing around  the  hamlet,  I  accosted  a  hardy-looking  Swiss,  and 
asked  him  if  he  could  guide  me  over  the  Col  de  Balm.  He  re- 
plied that  the  ordinary  route  was  impassable,  being  entirely 
blocked  with  snow ;  but  that  there  was  a  gorge  reaching  nearly  to 
the  top  of  the  pass,  now  half  filled  with  the  wrecks  of  avalanches, 
which  he  thought  might  be  travelled.  At  least,  said  he,  I  am 
willing  to  try,  and  if  we  cannot  succeed,  we  can  return.  I  took 
him  at  his  word,  and  returning,  told  my  friends  that  I  was  going 
to  cross  the  Col  de  Balm,  but  that  I  was  unwilling  to  take  the  re- 
sponsibility of  urging  them  to  accompany  me,  for  I  was  convinced 
the  passage  would  be  one  of  great  fatigue,  if  not  of  danger.  I 
then  called  the  guide,  and  told  him  to  meet  me  with  the  mules 
about  fifteen  miles  ahead,  at  Argentiere.  He  looked  at  me  a 
moment,  shook  his  head,  and  turned  away,  saying,  "  Je  vous  con- 
seille  de  ne  pas  aller."  "  Je  vous  conseille  de  ne  pas  aller.^^  I 
hesitated  a  moment,  for  my  guide  book  said,  "  Always  obey  your 
guide,"  and  farther  on  stated,  that  on  this  very  pass  a  young  Ger- 
man lost  his  life  by  refusing  to  obey  his.  I  did  not  want  to  be 
rash,  or  expose  myself  unnecessarily  to  danger,  but  one  of  the 
finest  views  in  the  world  was  worth  an  effort ;  so  stripping  off  my 
coat  and  vest,  I  bade  my  fearful  guide  good-bye,  and  taking  a 
pole  in  my  hand  for  a  cane,  started  off.  My  friends  concluded  to 
follow.  Immediately  on  leaving  the  valley  we  entered  on  the 
debris  of  avalanches,  which  fortunately  bore  us.  It  was  a  steady 
pull,  hour  after  hour,  mile  after  mile,  up  this  pathless  mass  of 
snow,  that  seemed  to  go  like  the  roof  of  a  house,  at  an  unbroken 
angle  of  forty-five  degrees,  up  and  up,  till  the  eye  wearied  with 
the  prospect.  My  friends  gave  out  the  first  hour,  while  I,  though 
the  weakest  of  the  party,  seemed  to  gain  strength  the  higher  I 
ascended.  The  cold  rare  atmosphere  acted  like  a  powerful 
stimulant  on  my  sensitive  nervous  system,  rendering  me  for  the 
time  insensible  to  fatigue.     I  soon  distanced  my  friends,  while 


COL  DE  BALM. 


my  guide  kept  cautioning  me  to  keep  the  centre  of  the  gorge,  so 
that  I  could  flee  either  to  one  side  or  the  other  should  an  avalanche 
see  fit  to  come  down  just  at  the  time  I  saw  fit  to  pass.  I  pressed 
on,  and  soon  lost  sight  of  every  living  thing.  The  silent  snow- 
fields  and  lofty  peaks  were  around  me,  and  the  deep  blue  heavens 
bending  brightly  over  all.  I  thought  I  was  iiear  the  top,  when 
suddenly  there  rose  right  in  my  very  face  a  cone  covered  with  snow 
of  virgin  purity.  I  had  ascended  beyond  the  reach  of  avalanches, 
and  stood  on  snow  that  lay  as  it  had  fallen.  I  confess  I  was  for 
a  moment  discouraged  and  lonely.  Near  as  this  smooth,  track- 
less height  appeared,  a  broad  inclined  plain  of  soft  snow  was  to 
be  traversed  before  I  could  reach  it.  I  sat  down  in  the  yielding 
mass  and  hallooed  to  the  guide.  I  could  hear  the  faint  reply, 
far,  far  down  the  breast  of  the  mountain,  and  at  length  caught  a 
glimpse  of  his  form  bent  almost  double,  and  toiling  like  a  black 
insect  up  the  white  acclivity.  I  telegraphed  to  him  to  know  if  I 
was  to  climb  that  smooth  peak.  He  answered  yes,  and  that  I 
must  keep  to  the  right.  I  must  confess  I  could  see  no  particular 
choice  in  sides,  but  pressed  on.  The  clean  drifts  hung  along  its 
acclivities  just  as  the  wintry  storm  had  left  them,  and  every  step 
sunk  me  in  mid-leg  deep.  This  was  too  much :  I  could  not  as- 
cend the  face  of  that  peak  of  snow,  direct;  it  was  too  steep;  and 
I  was  compelled  to  go  backwards  and  forwards  in  a  zigzag  di- 
rection to  make  any  progress.  At  length,  exhausted  and  panting, 
I  fell  on  my  face,  and  pressed  my  hot  cheek  to  the  cold  snow. 
I  felt  as  if  I  never  could  take  another  step ;  my  breath  came  diffi- 
cult and  thick,  from  the  straining  efforts  I  was  compelled  to  put 
forth  at  every  step,  while  the  perspiration  streamed  in  torrents 
from  my  face  and  body.  But  a  cold  shiver  just  then  passing 
through  my  frame,  admonished  me  I  had  already  lain  too  long ;  so 
whipping  up  my  flagging  spirits,  I  pushed  on.  A  black  spot  at 
length  appeared  in  the  wide  waste  of  snow.  It  was  the  deserted 
house  of  refuge,  and  I  hailed  it  with  joy,  for  I  knew  I  was  at  the 
top.  But,  oh  !  as  I  approached  the  thing,  dreary  enough  at  best, 
and  found  it  empty,  the  door  broken  down  by  the  fierce  storm, 
and  the  deserted  room  filled  with  snow-drifts,  my  heart  died  with- 
in me,  and  I  gave  a  double  shiver.  I  crept  to  the  windward  side 
of  the  dismal  concern  to  shield  myself  from  the  freezing  blast, 


10       View  from  col  de  balm. 

which  swept  by  without  check,  and  seemed  wholly  unconscious 
that  I  had  clothing  on ;  and  crouched  meekly  in  the  sunbeams. 
But  as  I  looked  up,  about  and  beneath  me,  what  a  wild,  ruinous 
world  of  peaks  and  crags,  and  riven  mountains,  rose  on  my  won- 
dering vision ! 

Farther  on,  and  lo,  the  sweet  vale  of  Chamouni  burst  on  the 
sight,  lying  in  an  irregular  waving,  line  along  the  Arve,  that  glit- 
tered like  a  silver  chain  in  the  light  of  the  sun.  Right  out  of  its 
quiet  bosom  towered  away  in  awful  majesty  the  form  of  Mont 
Blanc.  Oh,  what  a  chaos  of  mountain  peaks  seemed  to  tear  up 
the  very  sky  around  him.  The  lofty  "  needles,"  inaccessible  to 
any  thing  but  the  wing  of  the  eagle,  shot  up  their  piercing  tops 
over  glaciers  that,  rolled  into  confusion,  went  streaming,  an  ice- 
flood,  into  the  plains  below.  How  can  I  describe  this  scene.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  Deity  had  once  taken  the  chain  from  his  wildest 
laws,  to  see  what  awful  strength  they  could  put  forth,  and  what  a 
chaos  of  mountains  they  could  tumble  together.  High  over  all, 
with  its  smooth  round  top,  stood  Mont  Blanc,  like  a  monarch  with 
his  mountain  guard  around  him.  Yet  how  silent  and  motionless 
were  they  all,  as  if  in  their  holy  Sabbath  rest.  No  wonder  Cole- 
ridge lifted  his  hymn  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouni.  Yet  he  should 
have  looked  on  it  from  this  spot.  From  no  other  point  do  you 
get  the  relative  height  of  Mont  Blanc.  From  the  valley  you  look 
up,  and  all  the  peaks  seem  nearly  of  a  height :  but  here  you  look 
across  and  see  how  he  stands  like  Saul  among  the  Israelites^ 
head  and  shoulders  above  all  his  brethren.  The  great  difficulty 
in  standing  here  is,  the  soul  cannot  expand  to  the  magnitude  of 
the  scene.  It  is  crushed  and  overwhelmed,  and  almost  stu- 
pified. 

I  plucked  some  flowers  that  lifted  their  modest  heads  from  the 
margin  of  the  snow,  and  began  to  descend  towards  Chamouni. 
But  as  I  went  leaping  down  the  white  slope  with  a  shout,  I  sud- 
denly found  myself  hanging  by  the  arms,  while  the  dull  sound  of 
a  torrent  that  swept  my  feet  made  any  but  pleasant  music  in  my 
ear.  I  had  broken  through  the  snow  crust,  and  catching  by  my 
arms,  was  left  dangling  over  a  stream,  the  depth  and  breadth  of 
which  I  had  no  desire  to  measure.  The  sudden  change  from  my 
headlong  speed  and  boisterous  shouts,  to  the  meek,  demure  look 


SUNSET  ON   MONT  BLANC.  11 

and  manner  with  which  I  insinuated  myself  away  from  that  un- 
pleasant neighbourhood,  set  my  companions  into  convulsions  of 
laughter. 

A  cloud  that  came  drifting  along  the  sky  caught  on  Mont 
Blanc,  and  wrapped  it  from  my  sight.  Ah,  thought  I,  good  night 
to  Mont  Blanc!  But  the  sweet  valley  was  left  basking  in  the 
light  of  the  setting  sun. 

Hark  !  a  low  rumbling  sound  rises  on  the  air,  swelling  to  the 
full-voiced  thunder.  I  turned,  and  lo !  a  precipice  of  ice  had 
loosened  itself  from  the  mountain,  and  falling  over,  plunged,  with 
a  crash  that  shook  the  hills,  into  the  plain  below.  I  stood  awe- 
struck and  silent.  It  was  the  first  avalanche  I  had  heard,  and  its 
deep  voice  echoing  amid  those  mountain  solitudes  awoke  strange 
feelings  within  me.  The  mass  from  which  it  had  split  was  of  a 
pale  blue,  contrasting  beautifully  with  the  dull  white  of  the  sur- 
rounding glacier. 

At  Argentiere  I  found  the  guide  and  mules.  Mounting,  I  rode 
slowly  on,  thinking  of  that  Being  who  planned  the  globe,  and 
heaved  on  high  all  its  strong  mountains,  when  a  sudden  cry  from 
the  guide  attracted  my  attention.  He  stood  pointing  to  Mont  Blanc. 
I  looked  up,  and  to  my  surprise,  the  cloud  had  rained  itself  away, 
and  the  top  of  the  mountain  was  drawn  with  its  bold  outline 
against  the  clear  heavens.  The  sun  had  set  to  me,  but  Mont 
Blanc  was  still  looking  down  on  his  retiring  light.  And  now  over 
all  its  white  form  spread  a  pale  rose  colour,  deepening  gradually 
into  a  pink — the  peaks  around  taking  the  same  ruddy  glow,  while 
the  giant  shadows  stretched  their  misshapen,  black  proportions 
over  the  vast  snow-fields  between.  There  they  stood,  a  mass  of 
rose-coloured  snow  mountains,  towering  away  in  the  heavens : 
they  had  suddenly  lost  their  massive  strength  and  weight,  and 
light  as  frost  work,  and  apparently  transparent  as  a  rose-tinted 
shell,  they  seemed  the  fit  home  of  spiritual  beings.  And  then 
what  serenity  and  silence  over  them  all.  There  was  none  of  the 
life  and  motion  of  flashing  sunbeams  ;  none  of  the  glitter  of  light 
itself  on  mountain  summits,  but  a  deep  quiet  that  seemed  almost 
holy,  resting  there,  as  if  that  rose-tinted  top  was  bathed  in  the 
mellow  radiance  that  one  might  dream  of  as  belonging  to  a  sun- 
set in  heaven.     My  eye  wandered  down  the  now  ethereal  form 


12  MONT  BLANC  AT  NIGHT. 

of  Mont  Blanc  till  it  rested  on  a  wreath  of  fir-trees,  whose  deep 
green  contrasted  strangely  with  that  pure  rose-colour.  I  stood  be- 
wildered— it  seemed  a  magic  land.  But  the  glorious  vision,  like 
all  beauty,  was  as  transient  as  the  hour  that  gave  it  birth. 
Fainter  and  fainter  again  grew  the  tints  till  all  passed  away,  and 
Mont  Blanc  stood  white  and  cold  and  ghost-like  against  the  even- 
ing sky.  This  was  more  than  I  expected  ,to  see,  and  what  few 
travellers  do  see.  Mont  Blanc  is  chary  of  such  exhibitions  of 
himself. 

I  lay  down  at  night  with  my  fancy  too  full  of  wild  images  to 
let  me  sleep  soundly.  Feverish  and  restless ;  at  midnight  I  arose 
and  pushed  open  my  window.  All  was  silent  as  the  great  shad- 
ows around,  save  the  sound  of  the  torrent  that  rolled  its  turbid 
stream  through  the  valley.  The  moon  was  hanging  her  crescent 
over  the  top  of  Mont  Blanc,  that  stood  like  a  model  in  the  clear 
heavens,  a  fit  throne  for  the  stars  that  seemed  flashing  from  its 
top. 


MONTANVERTE  VALE  OF  CHAMOUNI.  13 


ni. 


ASCENT  OF  THE  MONTANVERTE,  VALE  OF 
CHAMOUNI. 


The  day  after  I  made  the  pass  of  the  Col  de  Balme  I  ascended 
the  Montanverte  to  the  Mer  de  Glace.  I  will  not  weary  you 
with  a  description  of  this  frequently  described  yet  ever  strangely 
wild  scene.  I  mention  it  only  to  show  the  simple  process  by 
which  an  Alpine  guide  sometimes  descends  a  mountain.  In  climb- 
ing up  our  zigzag  path  in  our  previous  ascent,  I  noticed  an  in- 
clined plane  of  snow  going  straight  up  the  mountain — the  relics 
of  the  track  of  avalanches  which  had  fallen  during  the  winter 
and  spring.  In  returning,  the  path  came  close  to  the  top  of  this 
inclined  plane,  which  went  in  a  direct  line  to  the  path  far  below. 
A  slide  down  this  I  saw  would  save  nearly  half  a  mile,  so  I 
sprang  on  to  it,  expecting  a  long,  rapid,  though  perfectly  safe  de- 
scent down  the  mountain.  But  the  surface  was  harder  than  I 
supposed,  and  I  no  sooner  struck  it  than  I  shot  away,  like  an  ar- 
row from  a  bow.  I  kept  my  feet  for  some  time  as  I  tacked  and 
steered,  or  rather  "  was  tacked  and  steered,"  straining  every  mus- 
cle to  keep  my  balance,  and  striking  my  Alpine  stock  now  on  the 
right  hand  and  now  on  the  left ;  till  exhausted,  I  fell  headlong 
down  the  declivity,  and  went  rolling,  over  and  over,  till  I  finally 
landed,  with  dizzy  head  and  bruised  limbs,  amid  broken  rocks 
at  the  bottom.  When  I  had  gathered  up  my  senses,  I  looked 
round  for  my  companions,  and  lo,  there  was  my  friend,  an  English 
gentleman  who  had  started  at  the  same  time,  about  midway  of 
the  slope.  As  he  found  himself  shooting  off  so  rapidly,  he 
wheeled  his  back  down  the  hill  and  fell  on  his  hands.     This  was 


14  BLISTERED  FEET. 


not  sufficient,  however,  to  arrest  his  progress,  and  he  came  on 
bear  fashion,  though  at  a  slower  rate.  Despite  my  bruises,  I  lay 
amid  the  rocks  and  laughed.  Our  guide  stood  at  the  top,  con- 
vulsed with  laughter,  till  he  saw  us  all  safely  landed,  and  then 
leaped  on  the  inclined  plane  himself.  Throwing  one  end  of  his 
Alpine  stock  behind  him,  he  leaned  almost  his  entire  weight  on 
it.  The  iron  spike  sinking  in  the  ice  and  snow,  checked  the  ra- 
pidity of  his  descent,  and  steered  him  at  the  same  time,  and  he 
came  to  the  bottom  in  a  slow  and  gentle  slide.  So  it  is  in  this 
world  :  there  is  no  man  who  cannot  find  those  who  will  teach  him 
on  some  points. 

When  I  reached  the  English  hotel  again  I  found  I  had  over- 
tasked myself:  I  began  to  suspect  as  much  before  I  had  half 
reached  the  top  of  Montanverte.  After  my  exhausting  tramp  in 
the  soft  snow  over  the  Col  de  Balme  I  should  have  lain  by  a  day, 
but  my  toilsome  day's  work  and  wet  feet  both  had  not  left  me 
any  worse,  but  on  the  contrary  better — so  I  concluded  to  take  it 
on  foot  up  the  Montanverte.  I  believe  I  should  have  refused  to 
ride,  well  or  sick,  when  I  came  to  know  how  matters  stood  about 
a  guide  and  mules.  We  had  hired  a  guide  and  mules  at  Martigny 
by  the  day  ;  supposing,  of  course,  we  could  use  them  at  Chamouni. 
Acting  on  this  belief,  my  companions,  who  had  resolved  to  ride, 
ordered  out  their  mules ;  when,  to  their  astonishment,  they  were 
told  that  neither  our  guide  nor  our  mules  could  be  permitted  to 
ascend  the  mountain.  A  Chamouni  man  and  Chamouni  mules 
must  go  up  the  Montanverte  or  none.  This  is  one  of  the  many 
niggardly,  petty  contrivances  one  meets  at  every  turn  in  Switzer- 
land to  wring  money  from  the  pockets  of  travellers. 

I  should  have  done  better  to  have  rode  even  on  those  conditions, 
for  I  was  completely  fagged  out  at  night,  and  with  more  bones 
aching  than  I  before  supposed  I  carried  in  me.  But  after  tossing 
awhile  on  my  feverish  couch,  I  at  length  fell  asleep.  How  long 
I  was  in  the  land  of  oblivion  I  know  not,  but  I  awoke  to  recollec- 
tion with  the  most  vivid  consciousness  of  possessing  ten  toes. 
Such  exquisite  pain  I  never  before  experienced.  I  turned  and 
twisted  on  my  couch — gathered  up  my  legs  like  a  patriarch  to 
die — held  them  in  my  hands — but  all  in  vain :  I  could  think  of 
nothing  but  torture  by  slow  fire.     Every  toe  I  possessed  seemed 


A  LUNATIC.  15 


to  have  been  converted  into  a  taper,  which  had  been  lighted,  and 
was  slowly  burning  away.  At  length  I  could  endure  the  agony 
no  longer,  and  rung  the  bell  till  I  waked  up  one  of  the  head  ser- 
vants of  the  house.  As  he  knocked  at  the  door  I  bade  him  come 
in  with  an  emphasis  that  only  made  his  entrance  more  studied  and 
careful.  "  What  is  the  matter,  sir  ?"  he  enquired  in  the  most 
provokingly  quiet  tone.  "  Matter !"  I  exclaimed,  as  I  thrust  both 
feet  out  of  the  bed,  "  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  is  the  matter. 
You  know  all  the  strange  diseases  of  this  infamous  country,  and  I 
want  you  to  know  what  has  got  into  my  feet."  He  looked  at 
my  swollen,  angry  toes  a  moment,  and  replied  with  a  most  bland 
smile,  "Oh,  you  have  blistered  your  feet — they  are  snow  blister- 
ed." Saying  this  he  left  the  room,  and  in  a  few  moments  return- 
ed with  some  brandy  in  a  saucer,  into  which  he  dropped  several 
drops  of  tallow  from  his  candle,  and  then  rubbed  my  feet  with  the 
mixture.  In  a  few  minutes  I  was  relieved,  and  soon  after  fell 
into  a  quiet  slumber ;  from  which  I  awoke  to  a  half-dreamy  state, 
with  a  dim  consciousness  there  was  music  around  me.  At  length, 
clear,  mellow  notes  of  a  horn  came  swelling  on  my  ear.  I  start- 
ed up,  and  looking  from  my  window,  saw  a  shepherd  driving  his 
goats  to  their  mountain  pasturage.  It  was  early  dawn,  and  as 
the  Alpine  strain  he  blew  echoed  up  the  vale  of  Chamouni,  I 
turned  to  my  pillow  again,  while  my  early  dreams  of  the  land  of 
the  Swiss,  with  all  the  distinctness  and  freshness  of  their  spring- 
time, came  back  on  my  memory. 

I  have  given  the  above  particular  account  of  my  blistered  feet, 
and  their  cure,  for  the  sake  of  those  who  may  make  pedestrian 
excursions  in  the  Alps.  With  the  first  symptoms  of  sore  feet,  the 
application  of  brandy  with  tallow  dropped  in  should  be  made,  and 
much  suffering  will  be  escaped. 

Taking  one  evening  a  stroll  down  the  vale  of  Chamouni,  just  as 
the  sun  was  tinging  the  Alpine  summits  with  his  farewell  glories, 
I  came  upon  one  of  those  unfortunate  beings  from  whom  the  light 
of  reason  has  fled.  Her  hat  was  loaded  down  with  wild  flowers, 
and  grass,  and  sprigs  of  every  description,  while  she  was  toying 
with  a  bunch  of  flowers  she  held  in  her  hand.  As  I  stood  leaning 
against  a  wall,  she  came  up  and  offered  me  some,  talking  at  the 
same  time  in  a  patois  made  up  apparently  of  a  half  dozen  Ian- 


16  ASCENT  OF  MONT  BLANC. 

guages,  scarcely  a  word  of  which  I  could  understand.  I  declined 
her  flowers  at  first,  but  she  pressed  them  on  me  till  I  took  one,  and 
placing  it  among  my  collection,  preserved  it  as  a  memento  of  Cha- 
mouni. 

The  register  of  the  English  Hotel  is  loaded  down  with  names 
interspersed  with  every  variety  of  remark,  in  poetry  and  prose : 
some  grave,  some  gay,  some  sentimental,  and  some  comical.  The 
following  description  of  the  ascent  of  Mont  Blanc  pleased  me  so 
much  I  copied  it. 

They  talk  of  Helvellyn,  Ben  Lomond  :  all  stuff! 
Mont  Blanc  is  the  daisy  for  me  sure  enough, 
For  next  to  the  Peek,  in  the  county  Mayo, 
It  bates  all  the  mountains  or  hills  that  I  know. 
^  Who'd  see  Mont  Blanc  fairly  must  make  the  ascent, 

Although  owld to  look  up  vvas  content : 

I  can  tell  owld  T that  as  I  mounted  higher. 

For  one  aigle  he  saw,  I  found  three  Lammergeyer. 
I  was  up  on  the  top,  where,  (I  tell  you  no  lie) 
I  could  count  every  rafter  that  Tiowlds  up  the  sky. 
I  wish  to  tell  truth,  and  no  more,  tho'  no  less. 
And  its  tirrible  height  to  corrictly  express : 
I  should  say  if  I  had  but  a  common  balloon, 
I  could  get  in  one  hour  with  all  aise  to  the  moon. 
If  ever  you  wish  on  that  trip  to  set  out. 
You  should  start  from  the  top  of  Mont  Blanc  without  doubt : 
*■    You'd  find  the  way  sure,  and  the  chapest  to  boot. 
Since  you'd  make  such  a  dale  of  the  journey  on  foot ; 
Yet  with  one  good,  or  two  middling  spy-glasses, 
You  could  see  from  Mont  Blanc  every  action  that  passes. 
I  persaved  the  last  quarter  quite  plain  through  a  fog, 
Growing  out  of  the  Jirst  like  a  great  moving  bog. 
In  a  country  so  subject  to  change,  I'll  be  bail. 
Some  hints  could  be  got  of  a  fair  sliding  scale  ; 
That  Peel  should  there  go  to  enquire,  I  advise, 
For  I  heartily  wish  him  a  flight  to  the  skies. 
But  again  to  my  subject :  I  say  and  repate  it, 
Mont  Blanc  hates  all  things  that  were  ever  created. 


THE  LAKERS.  .17 


As  I  was  determined  new  wonders  to  seek, 
I  went  by  a  route  that  was  somewhat  unique  : 
By  the  great  sea  of  ice,  where  I  saw  the  big  hole 
Where  Captain  Ross  wintered  not  far  from  the  pole :  i 

The  Tropic  of  Cancer  first  lay  on  one  side 
Like  a  terrible  crevice  some  forty  feet  wide : 
Farther  on  I  saw  Greenland,  as  green  as  owld  Dan, 
But  "  Jardin,"  the  guides  called  it,  all  to  a  man. 
I  didn't  dispute,  so  we  kept  under  weigh, 
Till  we  come  to  the  ind  of  the  great  icy  say, 
We  saw  the  great  mules  "  that  congealed  in  a  pop," 
When  Saussure  and  Belmet  would  ride  to  the  top ; 
Now  nothing  remains  but  the  petrified  bones. 
Which  mostly  resembles  a  pair  of  big  stones. 
I  brought  my  barometer,  made  by  one  Kayting, 
For  fear  the  weather  would  want  rigulating  ; 
But  the  weight  of  the  air  at  the  top  so  incrased,  ' 

That  the  mercury  sunk  fourteen  inches  at  lasle.  ^ 

Thin  the  cowld  was  so  hot — tho'  we  didn't  perspire —  *  \ 

That  we  made  water  boil  without  any  fire. 
We  fired  ofi'a  gun,  but  the  sound  was  so  small,  * 

That  we  doubted  if  truly  it  sounded  at  all ; 
Which  smallness  was  caused  (I  towld  my  friend  Harrison) 
Alone  by  the  size  of  Mont  Blanc  in  comparison. 
But  to  describe  all  the  sights  would  require 
Not  powers  like  mine,  but  genius  far  higher :  * 

Not  Byron  in  verse,  nor  Scott  in  his  prose. 
Could  give  the  laste  notion  of  Blanc  and  his  snows. 
Indeed  none  should  try  it  but  one  of  the  "  Lakers," 
Who,  if  not  great  wits,  are  yet  great  undertakers : 
And  then,  of  all  these,  none  could  do  it  so  well 
As  the  wonderful  author  of  great  Peter  Bell ; 
For  he  to  the  summit  could  easily  float 
Without  walking  a  step — "  in  his  good  little  boat." 
Next  to  him  the  great  Southey,  whose  magical  power 
Paints  the  fight  of  the  cat  in  the  awful  mice  tower ; 
Whose  description  in  words  of  sublimity  set, 
Says  "  the  summer  and  autumn  had  been  so  wet." 
3 


18  LAST  NIGHT  IN  CHAMOUNI. 

'Tis  spirits  like  these  who  are  fit  to  attempt 
The  labour  from  which  such  as  I  are  exempt. 

Pat'k  McSweeny. 

But  the  last  night  in  Chamouni  came ;  and  as  I  stood  and  leaned 
out  of  my  window  in  the  moonlight,  listening  to  the  turbid  Arveron 
rolling  its  swollen  current  through  the  vale,  suddenly  a  dull,  heavy 
sound,  like  the  booming  of  distant  cannon,  rose  on  the  night  air. 
An  avalanche  had  fallen  far  up  amid  the  Alpine  solitudes.  Noth- 
ing can  fill  the  soul  with  such  strange,  mysterious  feelings  as  the 
sound  of  avalanches  falling  at  midnight,  and  alone,  amid  the  Alps. 


VIEW  FROM  TETE  NOIRE.  19 


IV. 

PASS  OF  THE  TETE  NOIEE. 


It  may  be  from  early  association,  or  it  may  be  that  every  one 
has  made  a  hero  of  Mont  Blanc,  but  there  is  something  about 
that  majestic  form  and  those  splintered  pinnacles,  standing  like  so 
many  hel meted  sentinels  around  him  ;  and  all  that  prodigality  of 
snow-fields  and  glaciers,  that  has  left  its  impress  on  my  memory 
and  heart  for  ever.  And  then  that  strangely  silent,  white,  myste- 
rious summit,  bending  its  beautiful  outline  so  far  in  the  heavens, 
seems  to  be  above  the  turmoil  at  its  base,  and  apparently 
wrapped  in  its  own  majestic  musings.  I  would  have  given  any 
thing  to  have  placed  my  feet  upon  it  and  looked  down  on  the 
world  below,  but  it  was  too  early  in  the  season  to  think  of  doing 
it — indeed,  it  could  not  be  done  even  by  the  chamois  hunter,  for 
fresh  snow  had  fallen  every  few  days  throughout  the  season.  A 
French  lady,  delicate  and  pale,  wept  in  grief  that  she  could  not 
make  the  ascent. 

The  afternoon  we  mounted  our  mules  for  the  Tete  Noire  was 
dark  and  overcast,  and  there  was  every  appearance  of  an  Alpine 
storm.  We  had  scarcely  left  the  narrow  valley  and  entered  the 
mule  path  among  the  mountains,  before  the  blast  began  to  sweep 
by  in  gusts,  till  the  fir  trees  rocked  and  roared  over  our  heads. 
Having  ascended  at  length  above  the  region  of  trees,  I  turned  to 
catch  a  last  view  of  Mont  Blanc  and  his  glorious  mountain  guard 
before  I  entered  the  gloomy  pass.  There  he  stood  with  his  snowy 
helmet  on,  looking  down  on  the  vast  glaciers  that  went  streaming 
into  the  valley  below,  and  on  the  silent  snow-fields  stretching 
away  in  every  direction,  and  around  on  the  wild  chaos  of  moun- 
tains that  nature  seemed  to  have  piled  there  in  some  awful  hurry 
of  passion.     The  scene  was  indescribable,  for  the   feelings  it 


20  ALPINE   STORM. 


awakened  had  no  fixed  character.  An  object  of  beauty  would 
stand  beside  an  object  of  terror.  A  calm  and  soft  snow-field  that 
looked  in  the  distance  as  if  it  might  be  a  slumbering  place  for 
spirits,  went  creeping  up  to  as  savage  a  cliff  as  ever  frowned  over 
an  abyss ;  while  the  gentle  mist,  "  like  children  gone  to  their  even- 
ing repose,"  slept  here  and  there  in  chasms  that  seemed  fit  only 
as  a  place  of  rendezvous  for  the  storm.  Strangely  wild  and  majes- 
tic towered  away  those  peaks  on  the  vision.  I  gazed  and  gazed, 
reluctant  to  say  farewell  to  the  wondrous  scene. 

Just  then,  a  body  of  mist  riding  the  mountain  blast,  swept  over 
us,  veiling  every  thing  in  impenetrable  gloom,  while  the  rain  be- 
gan to  descend  in  torrents.  Sheltering  ourselves  under  the  pro- 
jecting roof  of  a  Swiss  hut  that  stood  a  little  removed  from  the 
path,  we  waited  awhile  for  the  shower  to  pass  over,  but  it  was 
like  waiting  for  a  river  to  run  by — the  clouds  condensed  faster 
and  faster,  and  the  day  grew  darker  and  darker,  till  sudden  night 
seemed  about  to  involve  every  thing.  A  feeling  of  dread  crept  over 
me  as  we  wheeled  out  again  into  the  rain,  and  turned  the  drooping 
and  dripping  heads  of  our  mules  towards  the  pass.  I  felt  as  if 
we  were  on  the  threshold  of  some  gloomy  fate,  and  I  defy  any 
one  to  keep  up  his  spirits  when  hanging  along  the  cliffs  of  an  Al- 
pine pass  in  the  midst  of  a  pelting  Alpine  storm.  We  spurred 
on,  however ;  now  crawling  over  barren  and  desolate  rocks,  now 
shooting  out  on  to  some  projecting  point  that  balanced  over  a  deep 
abyss  filled  with  boiling  mist,  through  which  the  torrent  struggled 
up  with  a  muffled  sound, — and  now  sinking  into  a  black  defile 
through  which  the  baffled  storm  went  howling  like  a  madman  in 
his  cell.  As  I  stood  on  a  ledge,  and  listened  to  the  war  of  the 
elements  around,  suddenly  through  a  defile  that  bent  around  a 
distant  mountain,  came  a  cloud  as  black  as  night.  Its  forehead 
was  torn  and  rent  by  its  fierce  encounter  with  the  cliflTs,  and  it 
came  sweeping  down  as  if  inherent  with  life  and  a  will.  It  burst 
over  us,  drenching  us  with  rain,  while  the  redoubled  thunder 
rolled  and  cracked  among  the  cliflS  like  a  thousand  cannon-shot. 
Every  thing  but  my  mule  and  the  few  feet  of  rock  I  occupied 
would  be  hidden  from  my  sight,  and  then  would  come  a  flash  of 
lightning,  rending  the  robe  of  mist,  as  it  shot  athwart  the  gloom, 
revealing  a  moment  some  black  and  heaven-high  rock ;  and  then 


A  CRUSHED  HAMLET.  21 

leaving  all  again  as  dark  and  impenetrable  as  ever.  The  path  often 
led  along  the  face  of  the  precipice,  just  wide  enough  for  my  mule ; 
while  the  mist  that  was  tossing  in  the  abyss  below,  by  concealing 
its  depth;  added  inconceivably  to  its  mystery  and  terror.  Thus, 
hour  after  hour,  we  toiled  on,  with  every  thing  but  the  few  feet 
of  rock  we  occupied  shrouded  in  vapour,  except  when  it  now  and 
then  rent  over  some  cliff  or  chasm.  I  was  getting  altogether  too 
much  of  sublimity,  and  would  have  gladly  exchanged  my  certainly 
wild  enough  path  for  three  or  four  miles  of  fair  trotting  ground. 
But  in  spite  of  my  drenched  state,  I  could  not  but  laugh  now  and 
then  as  I  saw  my  three  companions  and  guide  straggling  along  in 
Indian  file,  and  taking  with  such  a  meek,  resigned  air,  the  rain 
on  their  bowed  shoulders. 

As  we  advanced  towards  the  latter  end  of  the  pass,  I  was 
startled  as  though  I  had  seen  an  apparition.  The  mist,  which  for 
a  long  time  had  enshrouded  every  thing,  suddenly  parted  over  a 
distant  mountain  slope  high  up  on  the  farther  side  of  the  gulf,  and 
a  small  Swiss  hamlet,  smiling  amid  the  green  pasturages,  burst 
on  the  vision.  I  had  hardly  time  to  utter  an  exclamation  of  sur- 
prise before  it  closed  again  as  before,  blotting  out  every  thing 
from  view.  I  could  hardly  believe  my  own  senses,  so  suddenly 
had  the  vision  come  and  departed,  and  stood  a  long  time  wait- 
ing its  re-appearance.  But  it  came  no  more — the  stubborn  mist 
locked  it  in  like  the  hand  of  fate.  That  little  eagle-nested  ham- 
let, with  its  sweet  pasturages,  came  and  went  like  a  flash  of  light- 
ning, yet  so  distinct  was  the  impression  it  made,  that  I  could  now 
almost  paint  it  from  memory. 

Reaching  the  lower  slope  of  the  mountain,  we  passed  a  little 
village  utterly  prostrate  by  an  avalanche.  The  descending  mass 
of  snow  swept  clean  over  it,  carrying  away  church  and  all.  It 
looked  as  if  some  mighty  hand  had  been  spread  out  over  the  dwell- 
ings, and  crushed  them  with  a  single  effort  to  the  earth.  It  was 
one  scene  of  ruin  and  devastation,  yet  strange  to  say,  though  the 
avalanche  fell  in  the  night,  only  two  or  three  persons  were  killed. 
In  riding  along  it  was  fearful  to  see  where  an  avalanche  had 
swept,  bending  down  strong  trees,  as  though  they  were  reeds,  in 
its  passage. 

Soaked  through,  worn  out  and  depressed,  I  was  glad  when  the 


93  '       TETE   NOIRE. 


gloomy  path  around  the  Tete  Noire  (black  head)  opened  into  day- 
light ;  and  the  blazing  pine  fire  that  was  soon  kindled  up  in  a  dry 
room,  was  as  welcome  as  the  face  of  a  friend.  The  only  relic  I 
brought  away  from  this  pass  was  an  Alpine  rose,  which  my  guide 
plucked  from  among  the  rocks,  where  it  lay  like  a  ruby  amid  sur- 
rounding rubbish. 

In  looking  over  this  description,  I  see  I  have  utterly  failed  in 
giving  any  adequate  conception  of  the  scenery.  One  would  get 
the  impression  that  there  was  a  single  defile,  dark  and  narrow, 
and  nothing  more.  But  when  it  is  remembered  that  we  started 
at  nine,  and  emerged  from  the  dark  forest  of  Tete  Noire  at  three ; 
one  can  imagine  the  variety  of  scenery  that  opened  like  con- 
stant surprises  upon  us.  Now  we  would  be  climbing  a  steep 
mountain — now  plunging  into  a  dark  gorge  filled  with  boiling 
mist — now  hanging  along  a  cliff,  that  in  its  turn  hung  over  an  al- 
most  bottomless  chasm — now  stretching  across  some  sweet  pastu- 
rage— now  following  a  torrent  in  its  desperate  plunge  through  the 
rocks,  and  now  picking  our  careful  way  through  as  gloomy  a 
forest  as  ever  enclosed  a  robber's  den.  I  do  not  know  how  it 
may  appear  in  pleasant  weather,  but  the  pass  of  the  Tete  Noire 
in  the  midst  of  an  Alpine  storm  is  not  a  pleasure  jaunt. 


BATHS   OF  LEUK.  •  S3 


T. 

BATHS  OF  LEUK. 


In  coming  from  the  Simplon  up  the  Vallais  to  Geneva,  one  passed 
the  baths  of  Leuk,  a  little  removed  from  the  Rhone.  This  ham- 
let, elevated  4500  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  is  shut  in  by  a 
circular  precipice  that  surrounds  it  like  a  mighty  wall,  up  which 
you  are  compelled  to  climb  in  steps  cut  in  the  face  of  the  solid 
rock.  Its  hot  springs  are  visited  during  the  summer  months  by 
the  French  and  Swiss  for  their  healing  effects.  It  is  something 
of  a  task,  as  one  can  well  imagine,  to  get  an  invalid  up  to  these 
baths.  The  transportation  is  entirely  by  hand,  and  the  terms  are 
regulated  by  the  director  of  the  baths.  These  regulations  are 
printed  in  French,  and  one  relating  to  corpulent  persons  struck 
us  so  comically  that  we  give  a  translation  of  it. 

"  For  a  person  over  ten  years  of  age  four  porters  are  necessary ;  if  he  is 
above  the  ordinary  weight,  six  porters ;  but  if  he  is  of  an  extraordinary  weight, 
and  the  commissary  judges  proper,  two  others  may  be  added,  but  never  more." 

There  are  some  dozen  springs  in  all,  the  principal  one  of  which, 
the  St.  Lawrence,  has  a  temperature  of  124  deg.  Fahrenheit. 
The  mode  of  bathing  is  entirely  unique,  and  makes  an  American 
open  his  eyes,  at  first,  in  unfeigned  astonishment.  The  patient 
begins  by  remaining  in  the  bath  the  short  space  of  one  hour,  and 
goes  on  increasing  the  time  till  he  reaches  eight  hours  ;  four  before 
breakfast  and  four  after  dinner.  After  each  bath  of  four  hours' 
duration,  the  doctor  requires  one  hour  to  be  passed  in  bed.  This 
makes  in  all  ten  hours  per  day  to  the  poor  patient,  leaving  him 
little  time  for  any  thing  else.  To  obviate  the  tediousness  of  soak- 
ing alone  four  hours  in  a  private  bath,  the  patients  all  bathe 


24  MANNER  OF  BATHING.    . 

together.  A  large  shed  divided  into  four  compartments,  each 
capable  of  holding  about  eighteen  persons,  constitutes  the  princi- 
pal bath  house.  A  slight  gallery  is  built  along  the  partitions 
dividing  the  several  baths,  for  visitors  to  occupy  who  wish  to  enjoy 
the  company  of  their  friends,  without  the  inconvenience  of  lying 
in  the  water.  This  is  absolutely  necessary,  for  if  eight  hours 
are  to  be  passed  in  the  bath  and  two  in  bed,  and  the  person 
enduring  all  this  is  to  be  left  alone  in  the  mean  time,  the  life  of 
an  anchorite  would  be  far  preferable  to  it.  It  is  solitary  confine- 
ment in  the  penitentiary,  with  the  exception  that  the  cell  is  a 
watery  one.  All  the  bathers,  of  both  sexes  and  all  ages  and  con- 
ditions, are  clothed  in  long  woollen  mantles  with  a  tippet  around 
their  shoulders,  and  sit  on  benches  ranged  round  the  bath,  under 
water  up  to  their  necks.  Stroll  into  this  large  bathing  room 
awhile  after  dinner,  the  first  thing  that  meets  your  eye  is  some 
dozen  or  fifteen  heads  bobbing  up  and  down,  like  buoys,  on  the 
surface  of  the  steaming  water.  There,  wagging  backwards  and 
forwards,  is  the  shaven  crown  of  a  fat  old  friar.  Close  beside, 
the  glossy  ringlets  of  a  fair  maiden,  while  between,  perhaps,  is 
the  moustached  face  of  an  invalid  officer.  In  another  direction, 
gray  hairs  are  "  floating  on  the  tide,"  and  the  withered  faces  of 
old  dames  peer  "  over  the  flood."  But  to  sit  and  soak  a  whole 
day,  even  in  company,  is  no  slight  penalty,  and  so  to  while  away 
the  lazy  hours,  one  is  engaged  in  reading  a  newspaper  which  he 
holds  over  his  head,  another  in  discussing  a  bit  of  toast  on  a  float- 
ing table ;  a  third,  in  keeping  a  withered  nosegay,  like  a  water- 
lily,  just  above  the  surface,  while  it  is  hard  to  tell  which  looks 
most  dolorous,  the  withered  flowers  or  her  face.  In  one  corner 
two  persons  are  engaged  in  playing  chess  ;  and  in  another,  three 
or  four  more,  with  their  chins  just  out  of  water,  are  enjoying  a 
pleasant  "  tete-a-tete"  about  the  delectability  of  being  under 
water,  seething  away  at  a  temperature  of  nearly  120  deg.,  eight 
hours  per  day.  Persons  making  their  daily  calls  on  their  friends 
are  entering  and  leaving  the  gallery,  or  leaning  over  engaged  in 
earnest  conversation  with  those  below  them.  Not  much  etiquette 
is  observed  in  leave-taking,  for  if  the  patient  should  attempt  a 
bow  he  would  duck  his  head  under  water.  Laughable  as  this 
may  seem,  it  is  nevertheless  a  grave  matter,  and  no  one  would 


A  CURIOUS  VILLAGE.  25 

submit  to  it  except  for  health,  that  boon  for  which  the  circle  of 
the  world  is  made,  the  tortures  of  amputation  endured,  and  the 
wealth  of  the  millionaire  squandered.  The  strictest  decorum  is 
preserved,  and  every  breach  of  propriety  punished  by  the  worthy 
burgomaster  with  a  fine  of  two  francs  or  thirty-seven  and  a  half 
cents.  A  set  of  regulations  is  hung  against  the  walls  specifying 
the  manner  with  which  every  patient  is  to  conduct  himself  or 
herself. — As  specimens,  we  give  articles  7  and  9,  which  will  also 
be  found  in  Mr.  Murray's  guide  book. 

"  Art.  7.  Personne  ne  peut  entrer  dans  les  bains  sans  6tre  revetue  d'une 
chemise  longue,  et  ample,  d'une  ^tofTe  grossi^re,  sous  peine  de  2  fr.  d' amende." 

"  Art.  9.  La  raeme  peine  sera  encouir  par  ceux  qui  n'en  entreraient  pas, 
ou  n'en  sortiraient  pas  d'une  mani^re  d^cente." 

Translation.  Art.  7.  No  one  is  permitted  to  enter  these  baths  without  be- 
ing clothed  in  a  long,  ample,  and  thick  "  chemise"  under  the  penalty  of  a  fine 
of  2  francs. 

Art.  9.  The  same  penalty  will  be  incurred  by  those  who  do  not  enter  or  de- 
part iu  a  becoming  manner. 

Great  care  is  taken  that  every  thing  should  be  done  "  decently 
and  in  order,"  and  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  people  from  beha- 
ving themselves  while  sitting  on  benches  under  water  as  well  as 
above  water. 

About  a  mile  and  a  half  from  these  baths  is  the  little  village  of 
Albinen,  perched  on  the  top  of  the  precipice  that  hems  in  the 
valley  of  Leuk  on  every  side  like  a  huge  wall.  The  only  direct 
mode  of  communication  between  the  inhabitants  of  Leuk  and  this 
village  is  by  a  series  of  nearly  a  dozen  ladders  going  up  the  face 
of  the  precipice.  They  are  of  the  rudest  kind,  and  fastened  to 
the  rock  with  hooked  sticks.  Yet  the  peasants  ascend  and  descend 
them  all  times  of  the  day  and  night  and  at  all  seasons  of  the  year. 
The  females  have  added  to  their  usual  dress  the  pantaloons  of  the 
men.  This  has  become  so  universal,  that  in  climbing  the  moun- 
tains around,  they  tuck  up  their  dresses,  and  appear  at  a  little 
distance  like  boys.  Thus  do  these  rude  peasantry,  following  the 
instincts  of  nature  and  modesty,  combine  convenience  and  pro- 
priety, and  retain  their  fashions  from  one  generation  to  another. 
It  is  said  that  pantalets  had  their  origin  here. 


26  CASTLE  OF  CHILLON. 


VI. 


THE  CASTLE  OF  CHILLON.    GENEVA.    JUNC- 
TION OF  THE  RHONE  AND  ARVE. 


The  night  after  we  left  Martigny,  we  slept  on  the  shores  of 
Lake  Geneva,  in  close  view  of  Chillon.  This  Castle  has  become 
immortal  by  accident.  In  passing  round  Lake  Geneva,  in  1816, 
Byron  got  caught  in  a  rain-storm,  and  remained  two  days  in  the 
little  village  of  Ochy,  in  a  mere  hut  of  an  inn.  Having  nothing 
else  to  do,  he  wrote  in  the  mean  time,  "  The  Prisoner  of  Chillon," 
the  characters  of  which  poem  lived  only  in  his  own  imagination. 
At  that  time  he  was  even  unacquainted  with  the  story  of  Bonni- 
vard,  which  might  have  been  made  the  basis  of  a  very  beautiful 
poem.  When  he  afterwards  heard  of  it,  he  wrote  a  sonnet  on  th^ 
noble  prior  of  Victor,  in  which  he  says  : 

"  Chillon !  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place, 

And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar ;  for  'twas  trod 

Until  its  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 
Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 
By  Bonnivard  !     May  none  those  marks  efface  ! 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God." 

I  regard  the  "  Prisoner  of  Chillon"  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
pieces  Byron  ever  wrote.  It  has  all  his  passion  and  fancy,  with- 
out any  of  his  wickedness.  It  is  tender,  touching  and  beautiful, 
and  ought  to  make  any  place  immortal.  Yet  we  confess  that  the 
old  castle  standing  on  a  rock  in  the  lake  did  not  owe  its  chief 
charm  to  us  from  this  poem.  We  thought  of  the  patriot  Bonni- 
vard, who  suffered  here  for  endeavouring  to  make  Geneva  free. 
A  freeman,  and  loving  freedom  more  than  life,  he  withstood, 
though  only  Prior  of  St.  Victor,  the  tyrannical  Duke  of  Savoy  and 


BONNIVARD."  27 


his  own  heartless  Bishop.  Driven  from  Geneva,  he  was  betray, 
ed  into  the  hands  of  the  Duke,  and  cast  into  a  dungeon  of  this 
castle,  below  the  surface  of  the  lake.  Chained  to  a  column  of 
stone,  the  bold-hearted  Prior  passed  six  long  years  in  solitary  con- 
finement. The  ring  still  remains  in  the  pillar  to  which  his  chain 
was  attached,  and  the  solid  pavement  is  worn  in,  by  the  constant 
tread  of  his  feet  as  he  paced  to  and  fro  in  his  dungeon.  The 
only  music  that  greeted  his  ear,  year  after  year,  was  the  low  dash- 
ing of  the  waters  against  his  prison  walls,  or  the  shock  of  the 
waves  as  the  tempest  hurled  them  on  the  steadfast  castle.  Year 
after  year  he  trod  the  self-same  spot,  while  the  iron  rusted  on  his 
stiffening  limbs,  and  hope  grew  fainter  and  fainter  round  his 
heart.  He  struggled  to  free  others,  and  got  a  chain  upon  his  own 
limbs.  But  he  had  one  consolation,  that  which  cheers  the  mar- 
tyr in  every  age  and  in  every  noble  cause  :  that  was — 

"  Truth  crushed  to  earth  will  rise  again, 
The  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers." 

At  length,  one  day,  as  he  was  slowly  pacing  to  and  fro  in  his  si- 
lent dungeon,  he  heard  a  murmur  without,  like  the  coming  of  a 
storm.  The  castle  quivered  on  its  strong  foundations,  but  it  could 
not  be  from  the  waves  against  its  sides.  He  listened  again; 
there  were  human  voices  in  the  air,  and  the  shout  of  a  multitude 
shook  the  very  rock  on  which  he  stood.  A  deeper  paleness  spread 
over  Bonnivard's  cheek,  and  then  a  sudden  flush  shot  to  his  tem- 
ples as  hope  kindled  in  his  heart.  Blows  are  mingled  with  the 
shouts — the  crash  of  falling  timbers  is  heard — the  outer  gate  is 
forced,  and  like  the  blast  of  a  trumpet  rings  over  the  storm  the 
name  of  "  Bonnivarp  !  Bonnivard  !"  Nothing  can  withstand 
the  excited  throng.  Bolts  and,  bars  rend  before  them — the  gates 
shake,  totter  and  fall.  At  length  they  reach  Bonnivard's  dun- 
geon, against  which  blows  are  rained  like  hail  stones.  The  mas- 
sive gate  quivers  and  yields  and  falls,  and  a  thousand  voices  rend 
the  very  walls  with  the  shout — "  Bonnivard,  you  are  free  !" 
What  said  the  patriot  then  ?  Forgetful  of  himself — of  his  own 
freedom — thinking  only  of  his  country,  he  cried  out — 

"  And  Geneva  V 

"  Is  FREE  TOO !"  came  back  like  the  roar  of  the  sea.     The 


ROUSSEAU. 


Swiss  had  wrested  from  the  hands  of  Charles  V.  of  Savoy  the  whole 
Pays  du  Vaud.  Chillon  held  out  to  the  last ;  but  besieged  by  7,000 
Swiss  by  land,  and  the  Genevese  gallies  by  sea,  it  was  at  length 
taken.  It  was  like  waking  up  from  a  dream  to  Bonnivard. 
When  he  descended  into  his  dungeon,  Geneva  was  subject  to  the 
Duke  of  Savoy,  and  was  a  Catholic  State.  When  he  came  forth, 
Geneva  was  free,  a  republic,  and  professing  the  reformed  faith. 

Byron  has  made  free  use  of  the  poet's  privilege  to  exaggerate, 
in  speaking  of  the  depth  of  the  lake.     He  says  : — 

"  Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon's  walls — 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below 
Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow  : 
Thus  much  the  fathom  line  was  sent, 
From  Chillon's  snow-white  battlement." 

A  poet  should  never  go  into  statistics  of  this  sort,  for  other  folks 
can  measure  as  well  as  he,  though  they  may  not  write  poetry. 
There  is  no  place  in  the  region  of  the  castle  more  than  280 
feet  deep. 

I  will  not  weary  one  with  the  mere  names  of  the  beautiful 
places  and  views  around  this  sweet  lake.  The  sentimentalist 
would  talk  of  Clarens  and  Rousseau  and  his  Julie ;  the  sceptic, 
of  Voltaire  and  Ferney :  but  we  visited  neither  place,  having  no 
sympathy  with  the  morbid,  sickly,  and  effeminate  sentimentality 
of  the  one,  or  with  the  heartless  scoffing  wit  of  the  other.  The 
garden  in  which  Gibbon  finished  his  history  of  Rome  is  shown  at 
Lausanne.  He  first  conceived  the  idea  of  his  history  while  sit- 
ting on  a  broken  column  in  the  Coliseum,  and  ended  it  on  the 
banks  of  Lake  Geneva.  He  says  :  "  It  was  on  the  day  or  rather 
the  night  of  June,  1787,  between  the  hours  of  eleven  and  twelve, 
that  I  wrote  the  last  line  of  the  last  page,  in  a  summer-house  in 
my  garden.  After  laying  down  my  pen,  I  took  several  turns  in 
a  berceau  or  covered  walk  of  acacias,  which  commands  a  pros- 
pect of  the  country,  the  lake,  and  the  mountains.  The  air  was 
temperate,  the  sky  was  serene,  the  silver  orb  of  the  moon  was  re- 
flected from  the  waves,  and  all  nature  was  silent."  This  re- 
markable passage  throws  open  the  feelings  of  the  inner  man  at 
the  close  of  his  arduous  work.     Is  it  not  strange  that  a  man  of 


GIBBON.  29 


such  intellect  and  sentiment  should  see  no  Grod  in  history  or  na- 
ture ?  In  the  ruins  of  Rome  at  his  feet,  surmounted  every  where 
by  the  cross,  he  could  see  nothing  but  the  work  of  human  pas- 
sions and  human  cunning.  So  in  the  placid  lake,  smiling  in  the 
moonlight ;  and  in  the  towering  Alps  folding  their  mighty  summits 
away  on  the  nightly  heavens,  he  could  behold  nothing  but  the  as- 
pect of  nature.  To  him  the  world  had  no  plan  or  purpose,  and 
the  busy  centuries  no  mission  or  meaning.  The  heavens  and  the 
earth  were  a  mere  poem — the  history  of  man  a  short  episode — 
and  both  an  accident.  How  a  man  with  such  views  could  give 
himself  up  to  the  contemplations  Gibbon  did,  and  escape  suicide, 
is  a  mystery  to  me.  I  could  not  live  in  such  a  planless,  aimless 
creation.  Give  me  no  steady  centre  to  these  mighty  mutations — 
no  stable  throne  amid  these  rocking  kingdoms  and  shaking  orbs — 
no  clear  and  controlling  mind  to  this  wild  chaos  of  ideas  and  pas- 
sions— no  great  and  glorious  result  to  all  this  mysterious  and  aw- 
ful preparation, — and  Reason  herself  would  become  as  wild  and 
confused  and  aimless  as  they.  A  great  mind,  without  a  God,  is 
to  us  the  most  melancholy  thing  in  the  universe. 

Lake  Geneva  lies  in  the  shape  of  a  half-moon  with  the  horns 
curved  towards  the  South,  and  is  the  largest  lake  in  Switzerland, 
being  55  miles  long.  It  has  one  strange  phenomenon.  In  differ- 
ent parts  of  the  lake,  but  more  frequently  near  Geneva,  the  water 
suddenly  rises,  at  times,  from  two  to  five  feet.  It  never  remains 
in  this  position  more  than  25  minutes,  when  it  again  falls  back  to 
its  original  level.  These  are  called  seiches,  and  the  only  expla- 
nation given  of  them  is  the  unequal  pressure  of  the  atmosphere 
on  the  surface  at  different  times.  This,  however,  is  mere  con- 
jecture. 

But  the  shores  constitute  the  beauty  of  Lake  Geneva.  Sloping 
down  to  the  water's  edge,  covered  with  villas,  villages,  and  culti- 
vated fields,  and  hallowed  by  such  sweet  as  well  as  stirring  asso- 
ciations, it  seems  more  like  a  dream-land  than  a  portion  of  our 
rough  earth.  There  is  an  atmosphere,  an  influence,  a  something 
around  it  that  takes  the  heart  captive  at  once,  and  the  lips  will 
murmur 


"  Clear,  placid  Leman !  thy  contrasted  lake 
With  the  wild  world  I  dwell  in,  is  a  thing 


30  CALVIN. 


Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring : 
This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  destruction  ;  once  I  loved 
Tom  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  sister's  voice  reproved 
That  I  with  stern  delights  should  e'er  hav%  been  thus  moved. 

It  is  the  hush  of  night,  aftd  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk  yet  clear, 
Mellowed  and  mingled,  yet  distinctly  seen, 
Save  darkened  Jura,  whose  capt  heights  appear 
Precipitously  steep  ;  and  drawing  near 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the  shore 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood  ;  on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar. 
Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good  night  carol  more. 

At  intervals  some  bird  from  out  the  brakes 
Starts  into  life  a  moment,  then  is  still ; 
There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the  hill. 
But  that  is  fancy, — for  the  starlight  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  Icve  instil. 
Weeping  themselves  away." 

Yet  quiet  and  dreamy  as  these  shores  appear,  stern  practical 
men  have  lived  upon  them,  and  the  name  of  Calvin  goes  down 
with  that  of  Geneva  and  Switzerland  in  the  history  of  the  world. 
Calvin  and  Rousseau !  what  a  strange  connection ;  yet  they  are 
linked  together  in  the  history  of  Geneva.  The  church  still  stands 
where  the  itinerant  preacher  and  foreigner  first  thundered  forth 
his  denunciations  against  the  dissolute  town.  Elevated  to  the 
control  of  the  republic,  he  was  just  the  man  to  sway  its  turbulent 
democracy.  Stern,  fearless,  and  decided,  he  marked  out  his 
course  of  policy,  and  made  every  thing  bend  to  it.  Take  even 
some  of  the  most  arbitrary  of  his  enactments,  and  they  show  the 
clear-sightedness  of  the  man.  Among  them  we  find  that  only 
five  dishes  were  allowed  for  a  dinner  to  ten  persons.  Plush 
breeches  were  forbidden  to  be  worn  ;  violation  of  the  Sabbath 
was  punished  by  a  public  admonition  from  the  pulpit,  and  adul- 
tery with  death ;  while  the  gamester  was  exposed  in  the  pillory, 
with  a  pack  of  cards  suspended  round  his  neck.     These  things 


JUNCTION  OF  THE  RHINE  AND  ARVE.  31 

awaken  a  smile  or  sneer  in  these  more  liberal  days,  but  whoever 
shall  write  the  last  history  of  republics  will  prove  that  such  ap- 
parently bigoted  enactments,  sprung  out  of  the  clearest  practical 
wisdom.  A  republic  without  the  severity  of  Puritan  manner,  we 
believe  is  impossible  for  any  length  of  time  ;  that  is  while  men  are 
so  depraved  they  will  use  their  liberty  for  the  gratification  of  their 
passions.  The  (so  called)  "straight-laced  Puritan"  is,  after  all, 
the  only  man  who  knows  any  thing  of  the  true  genius  of  a  repub- 
lic among  men  such  as  we  find  them.  Calvin  and  Rousseau  ! 
which,  after  all,  was  the  true  republican  ?  the  sentimental  dream- 
er or  the  stern  Presbyterian  ?  These  two  names  stand  in  Geneva 
like  great  indexes,  pointing  out  the  characters  of  the  30,000  per- 
sons who  annually  pass  through  it,  by  showing  which  way  their 
sympathies  flow.  One  portion  looks  on  Calvin  to  sneer,  the  other 
on  Rousseau  to  sigh.  ,  . 

The  deep  blue  tint  of  the  waters  of  the  Rhone  as  it  leaves  the 
lake  has  often  been  commented  upon.  As  it  rushes  under  the 
bridges  of  the  town,  it  looks  as  if  a  vast  quantity  of  indigo  had 
been  emptied  into  it,  tinging  it  as  we  have  seen  water  in  no  other 
part  of  the  world.  About  a  mile  and  a  half  from  town,  this  stream 
of  "  heavenly  dye"  receives  the  turbid  waters  of  the  Arve  into  its 
bosom.  The  Arve  is  a  furious  stream,  and  comes  pouring  down 
from  Mont  Blanc,  loaded  with  the  debris  of  the  mountains,  till 
it  looks  like  a  river  of  mud.  When  the  clear  blue  Rhone  first 
meets  this  rash  innovator  of  its  purity,  it  refuses  to  hold  any  com- 
panionship with  it,  and  retires  in  apparent  disgust  to  the  opposite 
bank,  and  for  a  long  way  the  waters  flow  on  with  the  separating 
line  between  the  muddy  white  and  pellucid  blue,  as  clearly  drawn 
as  the  shore  itself.  But  the  Arve  finally  conquers,  and  fuses  all 
its  corrupt  waters  into  the  Rhone,  which  never  after  recovers  its 
clearness  till  it  falls  into  the  sea.  We  followed  the  bank  along 
for  some  distance,  watching  with  the  intensest  interest  this  strug- 
gle between  corruption  and  purity.  There  was  an  angry,  rash, 
and  headlong  movement  to  the  turbid  Arve,  while  the  stainless 
waters  of  the  Rhone  seemed  endeavouring,  by  yielding,  to  escape 
the  contagious  touch  of  its  companion.  What  a  striking  emblem 
of  the  steady  encroachment  of  bad  principles  and  desires  when 
once  admitted  into  the  heart,  or  of  the  corrupting  influence  of 


32  JUNCTION  OF  THE  RHINE  AND  ARVE. 

bad  companionship  on  a  pure  mind.  The  Arve,  for  the  time 
being,  seemed  endowed  with  consciousness,  and  a  feeling  of 
anger  involuntarily  arose  within  me  at  its  unblushing  effrontery 
in  thus  crowding  back  the  beautiful  Rhone  from  its  own  banks, 
and  forcing  it  to  receive  its  disgusting  embrace.  The  world  is 
full  of  histories  of  which  the  Rhone  and  Arve  are  the  type. 


FREYBOURG  ORGAN. 


y^ 


VII. 


FREYBOURG  ORGAN  AND  BRIDGES.— SWISS 
PECULIARITIES. 


Nothing  strikes  the  traveller  more  than  the  peculiar  custom* 
attached  to  the  separate  cantons  of  Switzerland.  Although  bor- 
dering on  each  other,  and  each  but  a  few  miles  across,  yet  they 
retain  from  generation  to  generation  their  own  peculiar  dress  and 
money.  The  traveller  becomes  perfectly  confused  with  the  latter.. 
The  dress  of  the  female  peasantry  is  not  only  dissimilar  in  the  dif- 
ferent cantons,  but  odd  as  it  well  can  be.  In  one,  the  head-dress 
will  be  an  immensely  broad-brimmed  straw  hat,  without  any  per- 
ceptible crown ;  in  another  a  man's  hat ;  in  a  third  a  diminutive 
thing  perched  on  the  top  of  the  head  ;  and  in  a  fourth  a  black 
crape  cap,  with  a  wing  on  each  side  projecting  out  like  huge  fans. 
The  latter  you  find  in  Freybourg,  and  this  reminds  us  of  the  two 
magnificent  wire  bridges  in  the  town  itself,  and  the  immense  or- 
gan. The  latter  has  7800  pipes,  some  of  them  32  feet  long,  and 
64  stops.  It  is  an  instrument  of  tremendous  power,  and  though 
the  traveller  is  compelled  to  pay  eleven  francs  to  hear  it  on  a  week- 
day, it  is  worth  the  money.  At  first,  one  imagines  a  trick  is 
played  upon  him,  and  that  a  full  orchestra  accompanies  the  or- 
gan.  The  mellow  tones  melt  in  and  float  away  with  the  heavier 
notes,  as  if  a  band  of  musicians  were  playing  out  of  sight.  Many 
refuse  to  believe  it  is  not  a  deception  till  they  go  up  and  examine 
every  part  of  the  instrument.  The  effect  is  perfectly  bewildering. 
There  is  the  trombone,  the  clarionet,  the  flute,  the  fife,  and  ever 
and  anon,  the  clear  ringing  note  of  the  trumpet.  The  perform- 
ance is  closed  with  an  imitation  of  a  thunder  storm,  in  which  the 
wonderful  power  of  the  instrument  is  fully  tested.     At  first  you 

4 


34  THE  TWO  SUSPENSION  BRIDGES. 

hear  the  low  distant  growl  swelling  up,  and  then  slowly  dying 
away.  The  next  peal  breaks  on  the  ear  with  a  more  distinct  and 
threatening  sound.  Nearer  and  nearer  rolls  up  the  thunder-cloud, 
sending  its  quick  and  heavy  discharges  through  the  atmosphere, 
till  clap  follows  clap  with  stunning  rapidity,  rolling  and  crashing 
through  the  building  till  its  solid  arches  tremble  as  if  the  real 
thunders  of  heaven  were  bursting  overhead.  I  did  not  dream 
that  a  single  instrument  could  possess  so  much  power. 

There  are  two  suspension  bridges  in  Freybourg ;  one  remark- 
able for  its  great  length,  the  other  for  its  extreme  beauty.  The 
latter  connects  the  top  of  two  mountains,  swinging  over  a  fright- 
ful gulf  that  makes  one  dizzy  to  look  down  into.  There  are  no 
buttresses  or  mason- work  in  sight  at  a  little  distance.  Shafts  are 
sunk  in  the  solid  rock  of  the  mountains,  down  which  the  wires  that 
sustain  it  are  dropped.  There  it  stretches,  a  mere  black  line  near- 
ly 300  feet  in  the  heavens,  from  summit  to  summit.  It  looks  like 
a  spider's  web  flung  across  a  chasm ;  its  delicate  tracery  show- 
ing clear  and  distinct  against  the  sky.  While  you  are  looking  at 
the  fairy  creation  suspended  in  mid-heaven,  almost  expecting  the 
next  breeze  will  waft  it  away,  you  see  a  heavy  wagon  driven  on 
it.  You  shrink  back  with  horror  at  the  rashness  that  could  trust 
so  frail  a  structure  at  that  dizzy  height.  But  the  air-hung  cob- 
web sustains  the  pressure,  and  the  vehicle  passes  in  safety.  In- 
deed,  weight  steadies  it,  while  the  wind,  as  it  sweeps  down  the 
gulf,  makes  it  swing  under  you. 

The  large  suspension  bridge  is  supported  on  four  cables  of  iron 
wire,  each  one  composed  of  1,056  wires.  As  the  Menai  bridge  of 
Wales  is  often  said  to  be  longer  than  this,  we  give  the  dimensions 
of  both  as  we  find  them  in  Mr.  Murray  :  Freybourg,  length  905 
feet,  height  174  feet,  breadth  28  feet ;  Menai,  length  580  feet, 
height  130  feet,  breadth  25  feet.  A  span  of  905  feet,  without  any 
intermediate  pier,  seems  impossible  at  first,  and  one  needs  the  tes- 
timony of  his  own  eyes  before  he  can  fully  believe  it. 

But  to  the  customs  of  the  Swiss.  I  do  not  speak  of  them  here 
because  I  have  witnessed  them  all  thus  far  on  my  route,  or  in  any 
part  of  it,  but  because  they  seem  to  fill  out  a  chapter  best  just 
here.  Of  some  of  these  customs  I  speak  as  an  eye-witness — of 
others  simply  as  a  historian.     There  is  one  connected  with  edu- 


THE  ALP  HORN.  35 


cation  which  exerts  a  wonderful  influence  on  society.  In  the 
large  towns  the  children  of  similar  age  and  sex  are  gathered  to- 
gether by  their  parents  in  little  societies  called  societies  des  dimaU" 
ches.  These  little  clubs  are  composed  of  twelve  or  fourteen  chil- 
dren, selected  by  the  parents  with  a  view  to  their  adaptedness  to 
amuse  and  benefit  each  other.  They  meet  in  turn  at  the  houses 
of  the  different  parents  every  Sabbath  eveping.  Their  nurses  are 
with  them,  and  the  time  is  spent  in  amusements  common  to  chil- 
dren. As  they  grow  older  these  amusements  are  combined  with 
instruction.  This  kind  of  intimacy  creates  strong  friendships 
which  last  long  after  they  are  dispersed  and  scattered  over  the 
world,  and  even  through  life.  Girls  thus  linked  together  in  child- 
hood retain  their  affection  in  maturer  life,  and  even  in  womanhood 
distinguish  each  other  by  the  tender  appellations  of  ^^ma  mignon- 
ne,"  "  mon  cceur"  "  mon  ange^  This  is  one  great  reason  why 
Swiss  society  is  so  exclusive,  and  it  is  so  difficult  for  a  stranger 
to  press  beyond  its  mere  formalities.  The  rank  of  the  husband 
in  Switzerland  depends  altogether  upon  that  of  his  wife.  Imme- 
diately on  their  marriage  he  steps  into  her  rank,  be  it  above  or 
below  that  which  he  formerly  occupied. 

There  has  been  much  written  about  Swiss  melodies,  and  the 
custom  of  singing  in  the  open  air,  in  that  clear  high  falsetto  is 
singularly  wild  and  thrilling.  The  cow  herds  and  dairy  maids 
seem  never  weary  of  mingling  their  voices  together  in  the  clear 
mountain  air  of  the  Alps.  The  effect  of  it  on  the  traveller  is  of- 
ten astonishing.  Southey,  in  speaking  of  it,  says,  "  Surely  the 
wildest  chorus  that  was  ever  heard  by  human  ears :  a  song  not 
of  articulate  sounds,  but  in  which  the  voice  is  used  as  a  mere  in- 
strument of  music,  more  flexible  than  any  which  art  could  pro- 
duce ;  sweet,  powerful  and  thrilling  beyond  description."  The 
Alp  horn,  which  is  merely  a  tube  of  wood  five  or  six  feet  long, 
bound  about  with  birch  bark,  is  capable  of  the  most  melodious 
sound,  when  softened  and  prolonged  by  the  mountain  echoes,  I 
ever  heard. 

Nothing  in  my  boyhood  captivated  my  imagination  more  than 
the  custom  which  was  said  to  prevail  in  Switzerland,  of  the  peas- 
antry calling  out  to  each  other,  as  the  last  sunlight  lefl  the  highest 
Alpine  peak, — "  Praise  the  Lord."    But  it  loses  some  of  its  poe- 


36  VESPERS  IN  THE  ALPS. 

try  heard  on  the  spot.  It  is  confined  to  the  more  rude  and  pastoral 
districts  in  the  Catholic  cantons.  Having  no  church  near  to  ring 
the  accustomed  vesper  bell,  its  place  is  supplied  by  the  Alp  horn. 
A  cowherd  stationed  on  the  highest  peaks  reclines  along  some 
rock,  and  as  the  golden  sunlight  leaves  the  last  heaven-piercing 
snow-summit,  he  utters  through  his  mellow  horn  the  first  five  or 
six  notes  of  the  psalm  commencing  "  Praise  ye  the  Lord."  The 
strain  is  caught  up  and  prolonged  by  the  mountain  echoes  and 
answered  from  other  distant  peaks,  till  the  soul-thrilling  cadences 
seem  to  die  away  on  the  portals  of  heaven.  The  tones  of  the  horn 
are  indescribably  sweet  and  subduing,  awaking  all  the  dormant 
poetry  of  a  man's  nature.  But  the  custom  which  once  seemed  to 
me  to  be  the  very  embodiment  of  religion  and  poetry  together,  ap- 
peared, after  all,  a  very  business-like  and  prosaic  matter.  It  be- 
ing necessary  to  carry  out  the  Catholic  observance,  a  horn  is  sub- 
stituted for  the  vesper  bell,  which  one  hears  ringing  every  evening 
in  Catholic  countries  for  the  same  purpose.  There  is  just  as 
much  religion  in  the  call  of  the  muezzin  from  the  minaret  of  some 
Moslem  tower,  which  one  hears  at  every  turn  in  Turkey.  Nay 
this  very  custom,  which  has  been  more  spoken  of,  more  poetized, 
perhaps,  than  all  others,  prevails  in  some  parts  of  our  own  country. 
I  remember  being  in  my  grown-up  boyhood  once  in  an  Indian 
missionary  station  of  the  Methodist  denomination,  where  a  similar 
expedient  was  adopted.  Strolling  at  evening  along  the  banks  of 
a  stream,  I  suddenly  heard  the  prolonged  blast  of  a  horn  sound- 
ing very  much  like  a  dinner  horn.  Its  long  continuance  at  that 
time  of  night  awakened  my  curiosity,  and  on  inquiring  the  cause 
of  it,  I  was  informed  it  was  to  call  the  Indians  to  prayer  meeting. 
A  conch  shell  had  supplied  the  place  of  a  bell.  Bending  my  own 
steps  thither,  I  arrived  just  in  time  to  find  a  low  school-house 
crowded  with  dusky  visages,  while  the  whole  multitude  was  sing- 
ing at  the  top  of  their  voices  "  Old  ship  Zion."  Here  was  the 
Alpine  custom  on  which  so  much  sentiment  has  been  expended, 
but  combined  with  vastly  more  sense  and  religion. 

At  the  sound  of  this  vesper  bell,  alias  Alp  horn,  the  peasants 
uncover  tlieir  heads,  and  falling  on  their  knees  repeat  their  eveil- 
ing  prayers,  and  then  shut  up  their  cattle  and  retire  to  their 
homes. 


RANZ  DES  VACHES.  37 

The  "  Ranz  des  Vaches,'*  which  is  commonly  supposed  to  be  a 
single  air,  stands  in  Switzerland  for  a  class  of  melodies,  the  lite- 
ral meaning  of  which  is  cow-rows.  The  German  word  is  Kurei- 
hen — rows  of  cows.  It  derives  its  origin  from  the  manner  the 
cows  march  home  along  the  Alpine  paths  at  milking  time.  The 
shepherd  goes  before,  keeping  every  straggler  in  its  place  by  the 
tones  of  his  horn,  while  the  whole  herd  wind  along  in  Indian  file 
obedient  to  the  call.  From  its  association  it  always  creates 
home-sickness  in  a  Swiss  mountaineer  when  he  hears  it  in  a  for- 
eign land.  It  is  said  these  melodies  are  prohibited  in  the  Swiss 
regiments  attached  to  the  French  army  because  it  produces  so 
many  desertions.  One  of  the  "  Ranz  des  Vaches^'  brings  back  to 
his  imagination  his  Alpine  cottage — the  green  pasturage — the 
bleating  of  his  mountain  goats — the  voices  of  the  milk-maids,  and 
all  the  sweetness  and  innocence  of  a  pastoral  life ;  till  his  heart 
turns  with  a  sad  yearning  to  the  haunts  of  his  childhood  and  the 
spot  of  his  early  dreams  and  early  happiness. 

The  Swiss  retain  their  old  fondness  for  rifle  shooting,  and  there 
is  annually  a  grand  rifle  match  at  some  of  the  large  towns,  made 
up  of  the  best  marksmen  in  all  Switzerland.  There  are  also 
yearly  contests  in  wrestling  called  Zwing  Feste,  the  most  distin- 
guished wrestlers  at  which  are  from  Unterwalden,  Appenzel  and 
Berne.  Goitre  and  Cretinism  prevail  in  some  parts  of  the  Alps 
to  a  fearful  extent,  and  have  prevailed  for  ages  if  we  can  believe 
Juvenal,  who  asks — 

"  Quis  tumidum  guttur  rairatur  in  Alpibus  ?" 

Goitre,  it  is  well  known,  is  a  swelling  of  the  thyroid  gland  or  ad- 
joining parts  in  front  of  the  neck.  It  increases  with  years  and 
hangs  down  on  the  breast  in  a  most  disgusting  and  shocking  man- 
ner. The  painful  spectacle  almost  destroys  one's  pleasure  in 
travelling  in  many  parts  of  the  Alps.  Cretinism  inhabits  the 
same  localities,  and  is  still  more  painful,  for  it  affects  the  mind. 
The  limbs  become  shrivelled  and  shrunk,  the  head  enlarged,  and 
the  afllicted  being  an  idiot.  He  sits  in  the  sun  all  day  long,  and 
as  you  approach  clamours  piteously  for  money.  Dr.  McClelland 
made  experiments  over  a  territory  of  more  than  a  thousand  square 
miles,  to  test  the  effect  of  certain  localities  on  this  disease.     Mr. 


38  GOITRE  CRETINIM. 

Murray  quotes  from  him  the  following  statement  showing  the  pro- 
portion between  the  healthy  and  sick :  as  the  result  of  his  obser- 
vation, 

Granite  and  gneiss — ^goitre  1-500 ;  cretins  none. 

Mica  slate  and  hornblende  slate — goitre  none ;  cretins  none. 

Clay  slate — goitre  1-136;  cretins  none. 

Transition  slate — goitre  1-149 ;  cretins  none. 

Steatic  sandstone — ^goitre  none ;  cretins  none. 

Calcareous  rock — goitre  1-3 ;  cretins  1-32. 

Thus  it  is  seen  that  low  and  moist  places  are  more  subject  to 
these  diseases,  while  the  high  and  dry  portions  are  comparatively 
exempt.  Confined  vallies  and  ground  frequently  overflowed  are 
also  unfavorable  localities.  The  goitre  is  hereditary,  but  does 
not  make  its  appearance  till  puberty.  It  is  more  common  among 
the  females  than  males. 

How  singular  it  is  that  among  the  most  glorious  scenery  on  the 
earth,  we  find  man  subject  to  a  disease  that  deforms  him  the  most. 
And  what  is  still  more  singular,  it  is  among  the  most  beautiful 
vallies  in  all  the  Alps  that  the  inhabitants  are  peculiarly  subject 
to  these  diseases.  Thus  beauty  and  deformity  go  hand  in  hand 
over  the  world. 


SCENERY  ABOUT  INTERLACHEN.         39 


Yin. 


INTERLACHEN,  PASS  OF  THE  WENGERN  ALP, 
BYRON'S   MANFRED. 


Interlachen  is  as  sweet  a  valley  as  ever  slept  in  the  bosom  of 
nature.  At  a  little  distance  from  it,  Lake  Thun,  with  its  placid 
sheet  of  water,  stretches  up  towards  Berne,  serving  as  a  mirror  to 
the  snow-peaks  of  Stockhorn,  Wiesen,  Eigher  and  Monch,  that 
rise  in  solemn  majesty  from  its  quiet  shore.  An  English  yacht 
has  been  turned  into  a  steamboat,  whose  tiny  proportions  remind 
one  more  of  a  slender  model  in  a  toy-shop  than  a  real  practical 
steamboat. 

Interlachen  seems  out  of  the  world,  and  its  retired  position  and 
magnificent  scenery  have  converted  it  into  an  English  colony;  for 
two-thirds  of  the  summer  visitors  are  Englishmen.  All  the 
houses  seem  "  pensions"  or  boarding  houses,  and  with  their  white- 
washed walls  and  large  piazzas  burst  on  you  at  every  step  from 
amid  the  surrounding  trees.  Set  back  in  the  bosom  of  the  Alps, 
with  the  Jungfrau  rising  in  view — its  endless  rides  and  shaded 
walks  make  it  one  of  the  sweetest  spots  in  the  world.  And  then 
in  summer,  the  contrast  between  the  richly  clad  visitors  that  swarm 
it  in  every  direction,  and  the  rustic  appearance  of  the  peasantry 
and  the  place  itself,  make  it  seem  more  like  a  dream-land.  Near 
by  are  the  ruins  of  the  castle  of  Unspunnen,  the  reputed  resi- 
dence of  Manfred.  Standing  as  it  does  in  the  very  midst  of  the 
scenery  in  which  that  drama  is  laid,  Byron  doubtless  had  it  in 
mind  when  he  wrote  it.  Near  by,  in  the  quiet  valley,  there  are 
every  year  gymnastic  games  among  the  peasantry,  such  as  wrest- 
ling, pitching  the  stone,  &c.  These  games  owed  their  origin  to 
a  touching  incident  in  the  history  of  Burkhard,  the  last  male  de- 


40  THE  GORGE  OF  LUTSCHINE. 

scendant  of  the  family  who  owned  the  castle.  A  young  knight 
belonging  to  the  court  of  Berchtold  of  Zahringen  fell  in  love  with 
Ida,  the  only  daughter  of  the  proud  Burkhard  ;  but  as  a  deadly 
feud  had  long  subsisted  between  the  two  families,  the  old  baron 
sternly  refused  his  consent  to  the  marriage.  The  result  was  that 
the  young  Rudolph  scaled  the  castle  walls  one  night,  and,  carry- 
ing off  the  willing  Ida,  made  her  his  bride.  A  bloody  war  com- 
menced, which  was  carried  on  without  advantage  to  either  party. 
At  length,  one  day,  as  the  old  baron  was  sitting  moodily  in  his 
room,  pondering  on  his  desolate  condition,  the  door  gently  opened, 
and  young  Rudolph  and  Ida  stood  before  him,  holding  their  beau- 
tiful and  fair-haired  boy  by  the  hand.  Without  attendants,  alone 
and  unarmed,  they  had  thrown  themselves  in  simple  faith,  on  the 
strength  of  a  father's  love.  The  silent  appeal  was  irresistible. 
The  old  man  opened  his  arms,  and  his  children  fell  in  tears  on 
his  bosom.  He  received  them  into  his  castle,  made  Rudolph  heir 
to  his  vast  possessions,  and  said,  "  Let  this  day  be  forever  cele- 
brated among  us."  Rustic  games  were  established  in  conse- 
quence, and  now,  with  every  return  of  the  day,  the  sweet  valley 
of  Interlachen  rings  with  the  mirth  of  the  mountaineer. 

It  was  a  dark  and  gloomy  morning  when  we  started  for  Lau- 
terbrunnen.  An  Alpine  storm  swept  through  the  valley,  and  the 
heaving,  lifting  clouds  buried  the  snow-peaks  around  in  impene- 
trable mist,  leaving  only  the  black  bases  in  sight.  The  rain 
fell  as  if  the  clouds  themselves  were  falling. 

In  the  midst  of  this  storm  we  plunged  into  the  savage  gorge  of 
the  Lutschine,  and  entered  upon  a  scene  of  indescribable  gran- 
deur and  gloom.  Perpendicular  cliffs  rose  on  each  side,  against 
which  the  angry  clouds  were  dashing  in  reckless  energy,  while 
the  black  torrent  of  the  Lutschine  went  roaring  by,  flinging  its 
spray  even  to  our  carriage  wheels.  As  we  emerged  into  the  val- 
ley of  Lauterbrunnen,  a  peasant  girl  came  to  the  side  of  the  car- 
riage, with  a  little  basket  of  strawberries  in  her  hand,  and  trotted 
along  by  our  side,  singing  one  of  those  strangely  wild  Alpine 
chorusses,  made  doubly  so  by  the  clear,  ringing  falsetto  tone  in 
which  they  are  sung.  At  Lauterbrunnen  we  breakfasted  in  a 
cold  room.  I  ate  with  my  cloak  on,  stopping  now  and  then  to 
warm  my  hands  over  the  tea-pot.     Suddenly  a  burst  of  sunlight 


FALLS  OF  STAUBACH.  41 

told  us  the  storm  had  broken.  A  general  "  hurra  !"  hailed  the 
cheering  omen,  and  in  a  moment  all  was  bustle  and  preparation 
for  a  march  over  the  Wengern  Alp. 

Nearly  20  miles  were  before  us,  and  to  be  made  at  the  rate 
of  about  two  and  a  half  miles  per  hour.  I  let  my  companions 
march  on,  while  I  paid  a  hasty  visit  to  the  falls  of  Staubach, 
(dust-fall)  so  named  because  the  water,  falling  from  the  height 
of  800  or  900  feet,  is  dashed  into  mist  before  it  reaches  the  bot- 
tom. It  comes  leaping  right  over  the  top  of  the  mountain  in  its 
bold,  desperate  plunge  for  the  valley.  Byron,  in  describing  it, 
says,  "  The  torrent  is  in  shape,  curling  over  the  rock,  like  the 
tail  of  a  white  horse  streaming  in  the  wind  ;  such  as  it  might  be 
conceived  would  be  that  of  the  pale  horse  on  which  Death  is 
mounted  in  the  Apocalypse.  It  is  neither  mist  nor  water :  but 
something  between  both.  Its  immense  height  gives  it  a  wave  or 
curve — a  spreading  here  and  a  condensation  there — wonderful 
and  indescribable."  After  getting  pretty  well  soaked  in  its 
spray,  I  plucked  a  blue  flower  near  its  foot,  and  turned  to  join 
my  companions,  who  were  now  slowly  winding  up  the  opposite 
mountain  in  a  narrow  mule-path,  that  seemed  itself  to  have  a 
hard  struggle  to  master  the  bold  hill.  Up  and  up  we  panted, 
now  rejoicing  in  the  clear  sunlight,  and  now  drenched  in  rain  as 
a  cloud  dashed  over  us.  Reaching  at  length  a  long  slope  of  pas- 
turage land,  I  ran  to  the  edge  of  a  precipice  and  looked  down  on 
the  valley  of  Lauterbrunnen,  now  dwindled  to  a  green  ditch — and 
across  on  Staubach^  that  seemed  merely  a  silver  thread  dangling 
over  the  rock.  The  echo  of  the  woodman's  axe  came  at  intervals 
across  the  valley,  whose  shining  steel  I  could  see  through  my 
glass,  coming  down  for  a  second  blow  ere  the  sound  of  the  first 
could  reach  me. 

Pressing  slowly  up  the  ascent,  my  steps  were  suddenly  arrest- 
ed by  one  of  the  sweetest,  clearest  tones  I  ever  heard.  Rich, 
mellow  and  full,  it  rose  and  fell  in  heart-piercing  melody  along 
the  mountain.  It  was  the  Alpine  horn.  This  instrument,  which 
I  have  described  before,  is  a  great  favourite  of  the  Swiss.  A 
young  mountaineer  lay  stretched  on  a  rock,  across  which  the 
horn  rested,  and  saluted  us  as  we  approached  with  one  of  the 
wildest  yet  softest  strains  I  ever  listened  to.     He  had  selected  a 


THE  ALP-HORN. 


spot  where  the  echo  was  the  clearest  and  the  longest  prolonged, 
and  I  stood  in  perfect  raptures  as  the  sound  was  caught  up  by 
peak  after  peak,  and  sent  back  in  several  distinct  echoes.  Long 
after  the  mountaineer  had  ceased  blowing  would  the  different 
peaks  catch  up  the  simple  notes  and  throw  them  onward,  refined 
and  softened  till  it  seemed  like  a  concert  of  unseen  beings  breath- 
ing their  mellowest  strains  in  responsive  harmony.  I  looked  on 
those  awfully  wild  precipices  that  scoffed  the  heavens  with  their 
jagged  and  broken  summits,  with  increased  respect  every  mo- 
ment, from  the  sweet  rich  tones  they  were  thus  able  to  send  back. 
But  I  must  confess  they  were  the  roughest  looking  choristers  I 
ever  saw  perform.  It  seemed  really  a  great  feat  to  make  such 
music,  and  I  thought  I  would  try  my  skill ;  so  putting  my  mouth 
to  the  instrument  I  blew  away — Heavens !  what  a  change  ! — 
every  mountain  seemed  snarling  at  me,  and  the  confused  echoes 
finally  settled  down  into  a  steady  growl.  I  gave  back  the  horn 
to  the  young  mountaineer,  while  the  peaks  around  suddenly  fell 
fifty  per  cent,  in  my  estimation. 

A  July  sun  pretended  to  be  shining,  but  we  soon  after  came 
on  fresh  snow  that  had  fallen  the  night  before.  Byron  pelted 
Hillhouse  on  this  spot  with  snow-balls — I  pelted  my  guide,  though 
the  poor  fellow  had  not  the  faintest  idea,  as  he  dodged  and  ducked 
his  head  to  escape  the  balls,  that  I  was  making  him  stand  as  rep- 
resentative of  Hillhouse.  Before  us  rose  the  Jungfrau,  clothed 
with  snow  of  virgin  purity  from  the  base  to  the  heaven-piercing 
summit.  A  deep  ravine  separates  the  path  of  the  traveller  from 
the  mountain,  which  from  its  colossal  size  so  destroys  the  effect 
of  distance,  that  although  miles  intervene,  it  seems  but  a  few 
rods  off. 

Reaching  the  chalet  near  the  summit,  we  stopped  to  rest  and 
to  hear  the  roar  of  avalanches,  that  fell  every  few  minutes  from 
the  opposite  mountains.  I  wish  I  could  convey  some  idea  of  the 
stupendous  scenery  that  here  overwhelms  the  amazed  spectator. 
Look  up  and  up,  and  see  the  zenith  cut  all  up  with  peaks,  white 
as  unsullied  snow  can  make  them,  while  ever  and  anon  adown 
their  pure  bosoms  streams  the  reckless  avalanche,  filling  these 
awful  solitudes  with  its  thunder,  till  the  heart  stops  and  trembles 
in  the  bosom.    I  never  before  stood  so  humbled  in  the  presence 


WONDERFUL  ECHO.  43 

of  nature.  Sometimes  you  would  see  the  avalanches  as  they 
rushed  down  the  mountain,  and  sometimes  you  caught  only  their 
roar,  as  they  fell  from  the  opposite  side  of  some  cliff,  into  a  gulf 
untrod  by  foot  of  man  or  beast. 

Byron  says,  in  his  journal  of  the  view  from  the  summit,  "  On 
one  side  our  view  comprised  the  Jungfrau  with  all  her  glaciers, 
then  the  Dent  d'Argent,  shining  like  truth ;  then  the  little  giant 
and  the  great  giant ;  and  last,  not  least,  the  Wetterhorn.  Heard 
the  avalanches  falling  every  five  minutes  nearly.  The  clouds 
rose  from  the  opposite  valley  curling  up  perpendicular  precipices, 
like  the  foam  of  the  ocean  of  hell  during  springtide — it  was  white 
and  sulphury,  and  immeasurably  deep  in  appearance.'* 

The  keeper  of  the  chalet  had  a  small  Mortar,  which  he  fired 
off  at  our  request.  Ten  distinct  echoes  came  back.  From  deep 
and  awful  silence  these  innumerable  peaks  seemed  aroused  into 
sudden  and  almost  angry  life.  Report  after  report,  like  the  rapid 
discharge  of  a  whole  bank  of  artillery,  thundered  through  the  clear 
air.  At  length  the  echoes  one  by  one  sunk  slowly  away,  and  I 
thought  all  was  over.  Fainter  and  fainter  they  grew  till  nothing 
but  a  low  rumbling  sound  was  heard  in  the  distance,  when  sud- 
denly, without  warning  or  preparation,  there  was  a  report  like  the 
blast  of  the  last  trumpet.  I  instinctively  clapped  my  hands  to  my 
ears  in  affright.  It  came  from  the  distant  Wetterhorn,  and  rolled 
and  rattled  and  stormed  through  the  mountains,  till  it  seemed  as 
if  every  peak  was  loosened  from  its  base,  and  all  were  falling  and 
crushing  together.  It  was  absolutely  terrific.  Its  fearful  echo 
had  scarcely  died  away  before  the  avalanches  which  the  sudden 
jar  had  loosened  began  to  fall.  Eight  fell  in  almost  as  many 
minutes.  The  thunder  of  one  blended  in  with  the  thunder  of 
another,  till  one  continuous  roar  passed  along  the  mountains. 
The  tumult  ceased  as  suddenly  as  it  commenced  and  the  deep 
and  awful  silence  that  followed  was  painful ;  and  my  imagination 
painted  those  falling  masses  of  snow  and  ice  as  half-conscious 
monsters,  crushed  to  death  in  the  deep  ravines. 

But  every  flight  has  its  fall ;  and  I  was  brought  back  to  mat- 
ters of  fact  most  effectually  by  the  very  respectful  request  of  the 
man  who  fired  the  mortar  for  his  pay.  On  asking  how  much  he 
demanded  I  found  that  the  avalanches  had  cost  a  trifle  over  three 


44  VIEWS  FROM  THE  WENGERN  ALP. 

cents  apiece,  to  say  nothing  of  the  echoes  and  the  hurly  burly  in 
general.  This  was  getting  them  dirt  cheap,  and  I  burst  into  a 
laugh  that  might  have  started  another  avalanche  without  any 
great  violation  of  avalanche  principles. 

But,  seriously,  this  multiplication  and  increased  power  of  a 
single  echo  was  something  entirely  new  to  me,  and  I  could  not 
have  believed  it  possible  had  I  not  heard  it.  Speaking  of  it  af- 
terwards to  a  German  professor,  he  remarked  that  the  same  thing 
once  happened  to  him  in  the  Tyrol.  He  was  travelling  with  an 
English  nobleman,  and  had  come  to  a  quiet  lake  amid  the  moun- 
tains on  the  shores  of  which  the  nobleman  sat  dropping  pebbles 
into  the  clear  water  and  watching  their  descent  to  the  bottom. 
The  professor  had  heard  of  the  wonderful  echo  in  this  spot ;  so, 
carefully  drawing  a  pistol  from  his  pocket,  he  suddenly  fired  it 
behind  the  Englishman.  The  report  that  followed  was  like  the 
breaking  up  of  the  very  foundations  of  nature.  The  nobleman 
clapped  his  hands  to  his  ears  and  fell  on  his  face,  thinking  an 
avalanche  was  certainly  upon  him. 

About  two  miles  from  this  chalet  is  the  summit  of  the  pass, 
6280  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  or  higher  than  the  highest 
mountain  in  the  United  States ; — while  around  rise  peaks  seven 
thousand  feet  higher  still.  The  view  from  this  spot  is  indescri- 
bable. The  words  "  sublime,"  "  grand,"  "  awful,"  &c.  cease  to 
have  a  meaning  here  to  one  who  has  applied  them  to  so  much 
less  objects.  The  mind  reaches  out  for  words  to  express  its  emo- 
tions and  finds  none.  The  Jungfrau  or  Virgin — now  no  longer 
virgin  since  a  few  adventurous  feet  have  profaned  the  pure  white 
summit — the  Monch — the  Great  and  Little  Eighers,  or  giants,  and 
peaks  innumerable  tear  up  the  heavens  on  every  side,  while  a 
mantle  of  snow  is  wrapped  over  all.  Glaciers  cling  around  these 
heaven  high  peaks  and  go  streaming  in  awful  splendour  into  the 
cavities  between,  where  they  flow  out  into  icy  seas  from  which 
the  sunbeams  flash  back  as  from  ten  thousand  silver  helmets. 
On  this  spot,  amid  this  savage  and  overwhelming  scenery,  Byron 
says  he  composed  a  part  of  his  Manfred.  It  is  his  own  soliloquy 
as  he  gazes  upward,  that  he  puts  in  the  mouth  of  Manfred. 

"  Ye  toppling  crags  of  ice — 
Ye  avalanches,  whom  9.  breath  draws  down 


MANFRED.  45 


In  mountainous  o'erwhelming,  come  and  crush  me ! 

I  hear  ye  momently  above,  beneath, 

Crush  with  a  frequent  conflict,  but  ye  pass 

And  only  fall  on  things  that  still  would  live  ; 

On  the  young  flourishing  forest,  or  the  hut 

And  hamlet  of  the  harmless  villager. 

The  mists  boil  up  around  the  glaciers ;  clouds 

Rise  curling  fast  beneath  me,  white  and  sulphury 

Like  foam  from  the  roused  ocean  of  deep  hell." 

There  is  no  work  of  the  fancy  here,  no  creation  of  the  poet — it 
is  simple  description — ^the  plain  English  of  what  passes  before 
the  traveller  who  stands  here  in  early  summer.  The  awful  si- 
lence that  follows  the  crash  of  an  avalanche  adds  tenfold  sub- 
limity and  solitude  to  the  Alps. 

After  having  gazed  our  fill  we  mounted  our  animals  and  began 
to  descend.  But  the  snow-crust  would  give  way  every  few  steps, 
when  down  would  go  horse  and  rider.  After  having  been  thrown 
two  or  three  times  over  the  head  of  my  animal,  I  picked  myself 
up  for  the  last  time,  and  with  the  sullen  unamiable  remark  that  he 
might  take  care  of  himself,  made  my  way  on  foot.  Coming  at 
length  to  solid  ground  I  looked  back  to  see  how  he  got  along,  and 
could  not  but  laugh  at  the  sorry  figure  he  cut  in  the  snow.  The 
crust  would  bear  him  for  several  steps,  when  down  he  would  go 
to  his  girth.  Extricating  himself  with  great  care  he  would  step 
gingerly  along  with  nose  close  to  the  surface  and  half  crouched 
up  as  if  he  expected  every  moment  another  tumble.  His  ex- 
pectations I  must  say  were  seldom  disappointed,  till  at  length 
when  he  came  to  where  I  stood  he  looked  as  meek  and  subdued 
as  a  whipped  hound. 

Mounting,  we  rode  away  for  the  valley  of  Grindelwald. 


46  VALLEY  OF  GRINDELWALD. 


IX. 

THE  GRAND  SCHEIDECK:  AN  AVALANCHE. 


The  little  valley  of  Grindelwald  received  us  as  we  descended 
the  Wengern  Alp.  Before  entering  it,  as  we  passed  down  the 
mountain,  up  to  our  hips  in  snow,  one  of  those  picturesque  scenes 
which  so  often  occur  in  Switzerland  burst  upon  us.  From  a 
deep  valley  directly  beneath  us,  smiling  in  all  the  frewshness  of 
summer  vegetation,  came  the  tinkling  of  hundreds  of  bells.  The 
green  pasturage  was  literally  covered  with  herds  of  cattle,  and 
flocks  of  goats.  All  around,  rose  the  gigantic  snow  peaks  and 
hung  the  fearful  precipices,  while  there  on  that  green  secluded 
spot  was  the  perfect  impersonation  of  repose  and  quiet.  The 
music  of  those  countless  bells  rung  and  mingled  in  the  clear 
mountain  air  in  endless  variations,  and  were  sent  back  by  the  giant 
peaks,  redoubled  and  multiplied,  till  there  was  a  perfect  storm  of 
sound.  As  I  passed  down  through  the  snow,  the  echoes  grew 
fainter  and  fainter,  till  the  mountains  held  them  all  in  their  own 
bosom — yet  that  scene  of  quietness  and  beauty  has  left  its  im- 
pression forever  on  my  heart. 

As  I  descended  into  the  valley  of  Grindelwald,  and  saw  the 
brown  huts  sprinkled  all  over  the  distant  slopes,  I  felt  how  hard 
it  must  be  to  conquer  Switzerland.  When  an  army  had  wound 
over  the  narrow  and  difficult  pass,  and  driven  back  the  hardy 
mountaineers,  and  burned  up  their  homes,  still  they  had  not  con- 
quered them.  Hid  amid  hollows  and  fastnesses,  unknown  to  their 
enemies,  they  could  put  them  at  defiance  forever. 

While  tea  was  preparing,  I  walked  through  the  valley  and  past 
the  parsonage,  into  which  the  minister  and  his  two  daughters 


A  GLACIER.  47 


were  just  entering,  from  their  evening  walk.  The  valley  lay  in 
deep  shadow,  while  the  last  sunbeams  still  lingered  on  a  distant 
glacier,  that  shone  like  burnished  silver  in  the  departing  light. 
That  sweet  parsonage,  in  that  quiet  spot,  amid  the  everlasting 
Alps  and  the  roar  of  its  torrents  and  avalanches,  seemed  almost 
beyond  the  reach  of  heart-sickening  cares  and  disappointments. 
I  grew  weary  of  my  roving,  and  felt  that  I  had  found  at  last  one 
spot  out  of  human  ills.  Just  then,  I  remembered  that  the  pastor 
and  his  two  daughters  were  clad  in  deep  mourning.  "  Ah  V^  I 
sighed,  as  I  turned  away,  "  death  has  been  here,  turning  this 
quiet  spot  into  a  place  of  tears.  He  treads  an  Alpine  valley  with 
as  firm  a  step  and  unrelenting  a  mien  as  the  thronged  street ; 
and  man  may  search  the  world  over,  and  he  will  only  find  at  last 
a  spot  on  which  to  grieve." 

While  at  tea,  three  peasant  girls  came  into  the  room  and  began 
one  of  their  Alpine  choruses,  in  that  high,  clear  falsetto  you  hear 
nowhere  but  in  Switzerland.  These  chants  are  singularly  wild 
and  thrilling,  and  in  the  present  instance  were  full  of  sweetness ; 
but  their  eflTect  was  lost  the  moment  I  remembered  it  was  all  done 
for  money. 

The  day  had  been  one  of  toil,  snd  the  night  was  disturbed  and 
restless.  Unable  to  sleep,  I  rose  about  midnight  and  looked  out 
of  my  window,  and  lo !  the  moon  hung  right  over  a  clear,  cold 
glacier,  that  seemed  almost  within  reach  of  my  hand.  The  silent, 
white  and  mighty  form  looked  like  a  monster  from  the  unseen 
world,  and  I  fairly  shuddered  as  I  gazed  on  it.  It  seemed  to  hang 
over  the  little  hamlet  like  a  cold  and  silent  foe.  In  the  morn- 
ing, I  went  under  it.  These  masses  of  ice  melt  in  the  summer, 
where  they  strike  the  valley,  and  the  superincumbent  weight 
presses  down,  urging  up  rocks  and  earth  that  no  power  of  man  could 
stir.  This  slowly  descending  glacier  had  done  its  share  of  this 
work,  and  had  thrown  up  quite  a  hill,  where  it  had  plunged  its 
mighty  forehead  in  the  earth ;  but  had  encountered  in  its  passage  one 
rock  that  seemed  a  mere  projection  from  the  solid  stratum  below, 
and  hence  could  not  be  moved.  The  glacier  had  therefore 
shoved  slowly  over  it,  leaving  a  cave  running  from  the  foot  up  to 
where  the  rock  lay  imbedded  in  it.  I  entered  this  cave,  and  the 
green  and  blue  roof  was  smooth  as  polished  silver,  while  a  pool  at 


48  AN  AVALANCHE. 


the  bottom,  acting  as  a  mirror  to  this  mirror,  perfectly  bewildered 
the  eye  in  looking  into  it. 

There  are  two  glaciers  that  descend  entirely  into  the  valley, 
and  push  their  frozen  torrents  against  the  bosoms  of  the  green 
pasturages.  Their  silvery  forms  fringed  with  fir  trees,  while 
their  foreheads  are  bathed  in  the  green  meadow  below,  furnish 
a  striking  contrast  to  the  surrounding  scenery.  One  can  ascend 
for  nearly  four  miles  along  the  margin  of  the  lower  glacier  on 
his  mule,  and  will  be  amply  repaid  for  the  trouble.  It  was  on 
this  glacier  that  the  clergyman  of  Vevay,  M.  Mouron,  was  lost 
— the  account  of  which  is  in  almost  every  book  of  travels.  It 
was  supposed  at  first  that  his  guide  had  murdered  him  ;  but  after 
twelve  days  search  his  body  was  found  at  the  bottom  of  a  crevice 
in  the  ice,  said  to  be  seven  hundred  feet  deep.  A  guide  was  let 
down  to  the  bottom  by  a  rope,  with  a  lantern  round  his  neck,  and 
after  descending  twice  in  vain,  the  third  time  was  drawn  up  with 
the  body  in  his  arms.  He  was  much  broken  and  bruised,  but  it 
was  impossible  to  tell  whether  he  was  killed  instantly  by  the  fall, 
or  whether  he  lay  crushed  in  that  awful  chasm,  breathing  his  life 
away  in  protracted  gasps. 

Mounting  our  horses,  we  started  for  the  grand  Scheideck,  near- 
ly eight  thousand  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea.  As  we  ap- 
proached that  '•'  peak  of  tempests" — the  Wetterhorn — whose  bare 
cliff  rose  straight  up  thousands  of  feet  from  the  path  to  the  regions 
of  eternal  snow,  one  of  the  guides  exclaimed — "  Voila  !  voila  .'" 
and  another  in  German,  "  Sehen  sie  t  sehen  sie .'"  while  I  scream- 
ed in  English,  Look  !  Took  !  And  it  was  time  to  look  ;  for  from 
the  topmost  height  of  the  Wetterhorn  suddenly  arose  something 
like  white  dust,  followed  by  a  movement  of  a  mighty  mass,  and 
the  next  moment  an  awful  white  form  leaped  away,  and,  with 
almost  a  single  bound  of  more  than  two  thousand  feet,*  came  di- 
rectly into  our  path,  a  short  distance  before  us.  As  it  struck  the 
earth,  the  crushed  snow  rose  like  vapour  from  the  foot  of  a  cata- 
ract, and  rolled  away  in  a  cloud  of  mist  over  a  hill  of  fir  trees, 
which  it  sprinkled  white  in  its  passage.     The  shock  was  like  a 

*  The  guide  said  between  two  and  three  thousand  feet.  I  have  tried  in  vain 
to  ascertain  the  exact  distance  from  the  top  to  the  path. 


THE  WITTERHORN.  49 


falling  rock,  and  the  echo  sounded  along  the  Alpine  heights  like 
the  roll  of  far  off  cannon,  and  died  away  over  their  distant  tops. 
One  of  the  guides,  belonging  to  a  Scotch  gentleman  who  had  that 
morning  joined  our  party,  was  an  old  traveller  in  the  Alps,  and 
he  said  that  in  all  his  wanderings  he  had  never  seen  any  thing 
equal  to  it.  That  serene  peak,  resting  far  away  up  in  the  clear, 
rare  atmosphere — the  sudden  commotion,  and  that  swift  descend- 
ing form  of  terror,  are  among  the  distinct  and  vivid  things  of 
memory. 

As  we  rounded  the  point  where  this  avalanche  struck,  we  came 
nearly  under  the  most  awful  precipice  that  I  ever  saw  or  dream- 
ed of  How  high  that  perpendicular  wall  of  Alpine  limestone 
may  be  I  dare  not  hazard  a  conjecture,  but  it  makes  one  hold  his 
breath  in  awe  and  dread  to  look  upon  it.  The  highest  church 
spire  in  America  would  have  been  a  miniature  toy  beside  it. 
Crawling  along  like  mere  insects  past  the  base  of  this  "  peak  of 
tempests,"  as  its  name  signifies,  we  began  to  ascend  the  last  slope 
of  the  grand  Scheideck.  When  about  half  way  up  I  stopped  for 
a  long  time,  hoping  I  might  see  another  avalanche  spring  away 
from  its  high  resting  place.  I  was  fairly  out  of  harm's  way,  and 
hence  could  enjoy  the  bold  leap  of  a  snow  precipice  from  the  cliffs 
of  the  Wetterhorn.  I  was  the  more  anxious,  as  avalanches  are 
generally,  to  the  eye,  mere  slender  torrents  streaming  down  the 
mountain  side.  The  distance  dwindles  the  roaring,  thundering 
mass  to  a  mere  rivulet,  but  this  was  massive  and  awful  enough 
for  the  gods  themselves.  But  I  waited  in  vain.  The  bright  sun 
fell  full  on  the  dazzling  top,  but  not  a  snow-wreath  started,  and  I 
turned  away  disappointed  towards  the  top  of  the  pass. 

The  descent  into  Meyringen  was  charming.  Afler  having 
passed  through  the  Schwartzwald  (dark  wild),  we  came  upon  a 
perfectly  level,  smooth  and  green  pasturage.  A  gentle  rivulet 
skirted  one  side  of  it,  while  at  one  end  stood  a  single  Swiss  cot- 
tage. I  left  the  path  that  went  into  the  hills  from  the  farther 
corner,  and  rode  to  the  end  and  looked  back.  From  my  horse's 
feet,  up  to  the  very  cliffs  that  frown  in  savage  grandeur  over  it, 
went  that  sweet  greensward  ;  while  at  the  left  rose  a  glacier  of 
the  purest  white  that  fairly  dazzled  the  eyes  as  the  sunbeams  fell 
in  their  noontide  splendour  upon  it.     That  beautiful,  quiet  plat 

5 


50  AN  ALPINE   VALLEY. 

of  ground — the  dark  fir  trees  environing  it — the  cliffs  that  leaned 
above  it,  and  that  spiritually  white  glacier  contrasting  with  the 
bright  green  below,  combined  to  form  a  group  and  a  picture  that 
seemed  more  like  a  vision  than  a  real  scene.  I  gazed  in  silent 
rapture  upon  it,  drinking  in  the  beauty  and  strangeness  of  that 
scene,  till  I  longed  to  pitch  my  tent  there  forever.  That  level 
greensward  seemed  to  rest  like  a  fearless,  innocent  child  in  the 
rough  embrace  of  the  great  forms  around  it.  It  was  to  me  the 
^em  of  Alpine  vallies. 

There  is  no  outward  emblem  of  peace  and  quietness  so  striking 
.as  one  of  these  green  spots  amid  the  Alps.  The  surface  of  a 
•summer  lake  stirred  by  no  breeze — the  quiet  night  and  quieter 
stars  are  not  so  full  of  repose.  The  contrast  is  not  so  great. 
Place  that  quiet  lake  amid  roaring  billows,  and  the  repose  it 
symbolised  would  be  doubly  felt.  So  amid  the  Alps.  The  aw- 
ful scenery  that  folds  in  one  of  these  sweet  spots  of  greensward 
makes  it  seem  doubly  sweet  and  green.  It  imparts  a  sort  of  con- 
sciousness to  the  whole,  as  if  there  was  a  serene  trust,  a  feeling 
of  innocence  in  the  brightly  smiling  meadow.  It  seems  to  let  it- 
self be  embraced  by  those  rude  and  terrific  forms  without  the  least 
fear,  and  smiles  back  in  their  stern  and  savage  faces,  as  if  it  knew 
it  could  not  be  harmed.  And  the  snow  peaks  and  threatening 
precipices  look  as  if  proud  of  their  innocent  child,  guarding  it 
with  savage  tenderness.  What  beauty  God  has  scattered  over 
the  earth  !  On  the  frame- work  of  the  hills,  and  the  valleys  they 
enclose — on  cliff  and  stream,  sky  and  earth,  He  has  drawn  the 
lines  of  beauty  and  grandeur  with  a  pencil  that  never  errs.  But 
especially  amid  the  Alps  does  he  seem  to  have  wrought  with  sub- 
limest  skill.  All  over  its  peaks  and  abysses  has  he  thrown  the 
mantle  of  his  Majesty ;  while  its  strong  avalanches,  falling  all 
alone  into  solitudes  where  the  foot  of  man  has  never  trod,  and  the 
wing  of  the  eagle  never  stooped,  speak  "  eternally  of  Him." 
"  The  ice  hills,"  as  they  leap  away  from  their  high  resting  place, 
*'  thunder  God  !" 


MEYRINGEN.  51 


X. 

VALLEY  OF  MEYRINGEN.-PASS  OF  BRUNI6. 


As  we  descended  into  Meyringen,  a  Swiss  peasant  girl  came 
running  up  to  me  with  an  Alpine  rose  in  her  hand.  If  it  had 
been  a  spontaneous  gift,  I  could  have  mused  over  it  for  an  hour  ; 
but  given,  as  it  was,  for  money,  destroyed  its  value,  and  I  placed 
it  in  my  pocket  to  preserve  for  an  American  friend,  to  whom  I 
never  designed  to  mention  the  circumstance  under  which  it  was 
obtained.  I  stopped  a  moment  to  look  at  the  Seilbach  (rope  fall), 
as  it  hung  in  a  long  white  thread  from  the  cliff;  and  at  the  roaring 
torrent  of  the  Reichenbach,  and  then  passed  into  the  valley,  which 
was  resting  below  in  all  the  quietness  of  a  summer  scene. 

One  has  peculiar  feelings  in  entering  an  Alpine  valley  by  one 
of  these  fearful  passes.  The  awful  cliffs  that  have  frowned  over 
him — the  savage  gorges  up  which  his  eye  has  strained — the  tor- 
rents and  avalanches  and  everlasting  snow  that  have  rolled,  and 
fallen,  and  spread  around  him,  have  thrown  his  whole  nature  into 
a  tumult  of  excitement.  And  this  stupendous  scenery  has  gone 
on  changing,  from  grand  to  awful,  till  feelings  of  horror  have  be- 
come mingled  with  those  of  sublimity ;  so  that  when  his  eye  first 
rests  on  one  of  these  sweet  valleys  smiling  in  the  sunlight,  with 
flocks  and  herds  scattered  over  its  bosom,  and  peasants'  cottages 
standing  amid  the  smooth  greensward,  the  transition  and  contrast 
are  so  great,  that  the  quietness  and  repose  of  Eden  seem  suddenly 
opened  before  him.  From  those  wild  and  torn  mountains,  that 
have  folded  in  the  path  so  threateningly,  the  heart  emerges  into 
one  of  these  valleys,  like  the  torrent  along  whose  course  he  has 
trod  in  awe.     The  foaming  cataracts  and  dark  ravines  are  all 


52  THE  OLD  SCHOOLMASTER. 

passed,  and  the  placid  stream  moves,  like  a  smile,  through  the 
quiet  landscape. 

But  this  valley,  so  bright  the  first  day  we  entered  it,  became 
dreary  enough  before  we  left  it.  One  of  those  dark,  driving  Al- 
pine storms  set  in,  and  for  three  days  we  could  not  place  foot 
out  of  doors.  The  chief  beauty  of  the  valley  consists  in  the 
two  steep  parallel  ranges  of  hills  enclosing  it,  now  and  then 
changing  into  cliffs,  along  which  white  cascades  hang,  as  if  sus- 
pended there,  while  far  distant  snow  peaks  rise  over  one  another 
in  every  direction.  The  Lake  of  Brienze  peeps  modestly  into 
the  farther  end  of  it,  enclosed  by  its  ramparts  of  mountains.  Ta- 
king a  carriage  to  the  head  of  the  lake,  we  there  hired  a  boat  to 
Griesbaek  falls.  A  man  and  his  wife  rowed  us.  After  clamber- 
ing up  and  down  the  falls,  and  under  them,  and  seeing  logs  which 
one  of  the  party  threw  in  above,  leap  away  from  their  brink,  we 
went  in  to  see  the  "  Old  Schoolmaster,"  and  hear  him  and  his  chil- 
dren and  grandchildren  sing  Alpine  songs,  while  the  white  water- 
fall played  a  sort  of  bass  accompaniment.  The  singing  was  very 
fine — the  best  we  heard  in  Switzerland,  and  after  having  pur- 
chased some  nick-nacks  and  music,  and  paid  beforehand  for  a 
farewell  on  the  Alp-horn,  which  is  said  to  sound  very  finely 
from  this  position,  we  embarked  once  more  upon  the  lake.  The 
"  Old  Schoolmaster"  told  us  it  was  far  better  to  hear  the  Alp-horn 
when  we  had  got  out  on  the  lake.  Never  supposing  he  would  de- 
ceive us,  we  laid  by  on  our  oars  for  a  long  time,  but  in  vain. 
He  had  fairly  Jewed  us. 

The  cliff's  around  this  valley  send  down  fearful  torrents  in  the 
spring,  one  of  which — the  Alpbach — has  once  buried  a  large  part 
of  the  village  twenty  feet  deep  with  mud  and  stones.  The  church 
was  filled  eighteen  feet  deep,  and  the  black  line,  indicating  the 
high  water  mark,  is  still  visible  on  the  walls.  The  last  leap  of 
the  Alpbach  is  right  over  a  precipice  clear  into  the  valley.  From 
the  peculiar  manner  in  which  the  sun  strikes  it,  a  triple  rainbow 
is  formed — one  of  them  making  a  complete  circle  around  your 
feet.  To  see  this  last,  it  is  necessary  to  enter  the  mist,  and  take 
a  beautiful  drenching ;  but  I  was  repaid  for  it,  by  seeing  myself, 
once  in  my  life,  with  a  real  halo  around  me,  and  that  too  around 
my  feet.    The  beautiful  ring  held  me  in  its  embrace  like  an  en- 


LAKE  OF  LUNGERN.  53 

chanted  circle,  until  the  drenching  mist,  having  finally  penetrated 
to  my  skin,  broke  the  charm.  I  went  shivering  home,  protesting 
against  rainbows  being  put  in  such  inconvenient  places. 

The  pass  of  the  Brunig  is  a  mere  bridle  path,  but  it  presents 
nothing  striking  to  the  traveller,  except  the  charming  view  of  the 
valley  of  Meyringen,  from  its  summit.     It  is  a  perfect  picture. 

The  lake  of  Lungern,  which  we  passed  soon  after  descending 
the  Brunig,  presents  a  most  singular  appearance.  It  has  been 
drained  twenty  feet  below  its  original  level,  and  the  steep  banks 
that  mark  its  former  height,  surround  it  like  some  old  ruined  wall. 
The  Kaiserstuhl,  a  high  ridge,  was  stretched  across  the  foot  of  the 
lake,  forming  a  natural  dam,  and  heaping  up  the  water  twenty 
feet  higher  than  the  valley  below.  A  tunnel,  1,300  feet  long,  was 
bored  through  this,  with  only  a  thin  partition  of  rock  left  to  hold 
back  the  flood.  Five  hundred  men  were  employed  on  it,  reliev- 
ing each  other  constantly,  and  for  several  hours  at  a  time :  for 
the  impossibility  of  ventilating  the  tunnel  from  above,  made  the 
air  very  foul  and  dangerous.  When  the  work  was  completed, 
and  floodgates  constructed  below  to  graduate  the  rush  of  the  water, 
nine  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  of  powder  were  placed  in  the  far- 
ther extremity  of  the  tunnel.  It  was  midwinter,  and  the  lake 
frozen  over,  but  multitudes  assembled  on  the  morning  appointed 
for  the  explosion  to  witness  the  result.  The  surrounding  hills 
were  covered  with  spectators,  when  a  cannon  shot  from  the  Kai- 
serstuhl, answered  by  another  from  the  Laudenberg,  announced 
that  the  hour  had  arrived.  A  daring  Swiss  entered  the  tunnel 
and  fired  the  train.  He  soon  reappeared  in  safety,  while  the  vast 
multitude  stood  in  breathless  anxiety,  waiting  the  explosion.  The 
leaden  minutes  wore  on,  yet  no  one  felt  the  shock.  At  length,  at 
the  end  of  ten  minutes,  just  as  they  had  concluded  it  was  a  fail- 
ure, two  distinct  though  dull  reports  were  heard.  The  ice  lay 
smooth  and  unbroken  as  ever,  and  there  was  a  second  disappoint- 
ment, for  all  supposed  the  mine  had  not  burst  through  the  parti- 
tion. But,  at  length,  there  was  a  shout  from  below,  and  a  black 
stream  of  mud  and  water  was  seen  to  issue  from  the  opening, 
showing  that  the  work  was  done.  This  drainage  was  to  recover 
a  large  tract  of  land,  which  was  a  mere  swamp.     The  object  was 


54  ALPNACH  SLIDE. 


secured,  but  the  land  is  hardly  worth  the  tilling.  The  geologist, 
however,  will  regard  the  portion  laid  bare  with  interest. 

As  we  approached  Lucerne,  we  passed  the  location  of  the  fa- 
mous Alpnach  slide,  made  during  the  time  of  Bonaparte,  for  the 
purpose  of  bringing  timber  for  ship-building  from  the  mountains. 
It  was  eight  miles  long,  and  between  three  and  four  feet  wide, 
and  was  made  of  logs  fastened  together,  so  as  to  form  a  sort  of 
trough.  This  trough  went  across  frightful  gorges,  and  in  some 
instances  under  ground.  A  rill  of  water  was  directed  into  it  to 
lessen  the  friction,  and  prevent  the  logs  from  taking  fire.  A 
tree,  a  hundred  feet  long  and  four  feet  in  diameter,  would  shoot 
this  eight  miles  in  six  minutes.  When  one  of  these  logs  bolted 
from  the  trough,  it  would  shoot  like  an  arrow  through  the  air,  and 
if  it  came  in  contact  with  a  tree  would  cut  it  clean  in  two.  The 
whole  work  is  now  destroyed. 

Coming,  at  length,  to  Lake  Lucerne,  we  took  a  boat  and  row- 
ers, and  set  off  for  the  town  that  stands  so  beautifully  at  its  foot. 
I  had  been  for  days  in  the  heart  of  the  Oberland,  which  contains 
the  wildest  scenery  in  the  Alps.  My  meat  had  been  mostly  the 
flesh  of  the  Chamois,  while  the  men  and  the  habitations  I  had 
passed  seemed  to  belong  to  another  world.  In  one  instance,  I  had 
seen  a  man  carrying  boards  strapped  to  his  back,  between  three 
and  four  miles  to  his  hut,  on  the  high  pasturage  grounds.  There 
was  no  other  way  of  getting  them  there.  These  huts  or  cottages 
(just  as  one  likes  to  call  them)  with  their  low  walls  and  over- 
hanging roof  loaded  with  stones  and  rocks,  to  keep  them  from  be- 
ing blown  off  when  the  fierce  Alpine  storm  is  on  his  march,  have 
an  odd  look ;  though  they  are  sometimes  very  picturesque,  from 
their  position. 

From  such  scenery  and  dwellings  the  sight  of  a  town  and 
houses  was  like  a  sudden  waking  up  from  some  strange  dream. 


SUWARROW'S  PASSAGE  OF  THE   PRAGEL.  55 


XL 

SUWARROW'S  PASSAGE  OF  THE  PRAGEL. 


At  the  head  of  Lake  Lucerne  stands  the  little  village  of  Fluel- 
len.  It  was  here  that  Suwarrow,  after  forcing  the  passage  of  St. 
Gothard,  was  finally  stopped  in  his  victorious  course.  The  lake 
stretched  away  before  him,  while  there  was  not  a  boat  with  which 
to  transport  his  weary  army  over.  There  was  no  other  course 
left  him  on  his  route  to  Zurich  but  to  ascend  the  heights  of  the 
Kinzig  Culm,  a  desperate  undertaking  at  the  best;  and  cross  into 
the  Muotta  Thai.  This  wonderful  retreat  was  made  while  his 
army,  as  it  hung  along  the  cliffs,  was  constantly  engaged  in  resist- 
ing the  attack  of  the  enemy. 

It  was  forty-six  years  ago,  one  night  in  September,  that  the  peace- 
ful inhabitants  of  the  Muotta  Thai  were  struck  with  wonder  at  the 
sudden  appearance  among  them  of  multitudes  of  armed  men  of  a 
strange  garb  and  language.  They  had  just  gathered  their  herds 
and  flocks  to  the  fold,  and  were  seeking  their  quiet  homes  that 
slept  amid  the  green  pasturages,  when,  like  a  mountain  torrent, 
came  pouring  out  from  every  defile  and  giddy  pass,  these  strange, 
unintelligible  beings.  From  the  heights  of  the  Kinzig  Culm — 
from  precipices  the  shepherds  scarce  dared  to  tread,  they  came 
streaming  with  their  confused  jargon  around  the  cottages  of  these 
simple  children  of  the  Alps.  It  was  Suwarrow,  with  twenty-four 
thousand  Russians  at  his  back,  on  his  march  from  Italy  to  join 
the  allied  forces  at  Zurich.  He  had  forced  the  passage  of  St. 
Gothard,  and  had  reached  thus  far  when  he  was  stopped  by  Lake 
Lucerne,  and  was  told  that  Korsakow  and  the  main  Russian  army 
at  Zurich  had  been  defeated.  Indignant  and  incredulous  at  the 
report,  he  would  have  hung  the  peasant  who  informed  him,  as  a 


56  BATTLE  OF  MUOTTA  THAL. 

spy,  had  not  the  lady-mother  of  St.  Joseph's  Nunnery  interceded 
in  his  behalf.  Here  in  this  great  Alpine  valley  the  bold  com- 
mander  found  himself  completely  surrounded.  Molitor  and  his 
battalions  looked  down  on  him  from  the  heights  around  the  Muot- 
ta  Thai :  Mortier  and  Massena  blocked  its  mouth :  while  Le- 
courbe  hung  on  his  rear.  The  Russian  bear  was  denned,  and 
compelled,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  to  order  a  retreat.  He 
wept  in  indignation  and  grief,  and  adopted  the  only  alternative 
left  him,  to  cross  the  Pragel  into  Glarus.  Then  commenced  one 
of  those  desperate  marches  unparalleled  in  the  history  of  man. 
The  passage  of  the  St.  Bernard,  by  Bonaparte,  was  a  comforta- 
ble march  compared  to  it,  and  Hannibal's  world-renowned  exploit 
mere  child's  play,  beside  it.  While  the  head  of  Suwarrow's 
column  had  descended  the  Pragel  and  was  fighting  desperately  at 
Naefels,  the  rear-guard,  encumbered  with  the  wounded,  was 
struggling  in  the  Muotta  Thai  with  Massena  and  his  battalions. 
Then  these  savage  solitudes  shook  to  the  thunder  of  cannon  and 
roar  of  musketry.  The  startled  avalanche  came  leaping  from 
the  heights,  mingling  its  sullen  thunder  with  the  sound  of  battle. 
The  frightened  chamois  paused  on  the  high  precipice  to  catch 
the  strange  uproar  that  filled  the  hills. — The  simple-hearted  peas- 
antry saw  their  green  pasturages  covered  with  battling  armies, 
and  the  snow-capped  heights  crimson  with  the  blood  of  men. 
Whole  companies  fell  like  snow-wreaths  from  the  rocks  while 
the  artillery  ploughed  through  the  den.se  mass  of  human  flesh 
that  darkened  the  gorge  below.  For  ten  successive  days  had 
these  armies  marched  and  combated,  and  yet  here,  on  the  elev- 
enth, they  struggled  with  unabated  resolution.  Unable  to  force 
the  passage  at  Naefels,  Suwarrow  took  the  desperate  and  awful 
resolution  of  leading  his  weary  and  wounded  army  over  the 
mountains  into  the  Grisons. 

Imagine,  if  you  can,  an  awful  solitude  of  mountains  and  pre- 
cipices and  glaciers  piled  one  above  another  in  savage  grandeur. 
Cast  your  eye  up  one  of  these  mountains,  7,500  feet  above  the 
level  of  the  sea,  along  whose  bosom,  in  a  zigzag  line,  goes  a  nar- 
row path  winding  over  precipices  and  snow-fields  till  finally  lost 
on  the  distant  summit.     Up  that  difficult  path  and  into  the  very 


DIFFICULTIES  OF  THE  PASSAGE.  57 

heart  of  those  fearful  snow-peaks  has  the  bold  Russian  resolved  to 
lead  his  24,000  men. 

To  increase  the  difficulties  that  beset  him  and  re^der  his 
destruction  apparently  inevitable,  the  snow  fell,  on  the  morning 
he  set  out,  two  feet  deep,  obliterating  all  traces  of  the  path,  and 
forming  as  it  were  a  winding  sheet  for  his  army.  In  single  file, 
and  with  heavy  hearts,  that  mighty  host  one  after  another  entered 
the  snow-drifts  and  began  the  ascent.  Only  a  few  miles  could 
be  made  the  first  day,  and  at  night,  without  a  cottage  in  sight, 
without  even  a  tree  to  kindle  for  a  light  around  their  silent 
bivouacs,  the  army  lay  down  in  the  snow  with  the  Alpine  crags 
around  them  for  their  sentinels.  The  next  day  the  head  of  the 
column  reached  the  summit  of  the  ridge,  and  lo !  what  a  scene 
was  spread  out  before  them.  No  one  who  has  not  stood  on  an 
Alpine  summit  can  have  any  conception  of  the  utter  dreariness 
of  this  region.  The  mighty  mountains,  as  far  as  the  eye  can 
reach,  lean  along  the  solemn  sky,  while  the  deep  silence  around 
is  broken  by  the  sound  of  no  living  thing.  Only  now  and  then 
the  voice  of  the  avalanche  is  heard  speaking  in  its  low  thunder 
tone  from  the  depth  of  an  awful  abyss,  or  the  scream  of  a  solitary 
eagle  circling  round  some  lofty  crag.  The  bold  Russian  stood 
and  gazed  long  and  anxiously  on  this  scene,  and  then  turned  to 
look  on  his  straggling  army  that  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  wound 
like  a  huge  anaconda  over  the  white  surface  of  the  snow.  No 
column  of  smoke  arose  in  this  desert  wild  to  cheer  the  sight,  but 
all  was  silent,  mournful  and  prophetic.  The  winding  sheet  of  the 
army  seemed  unrolled  before  him.  No  path  guided  their  foot- 
steps, and  ever  and  anon  a  bayonet  and  feather  disappeared 
together  as  some  poor  soldier  slipped  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice 
and  fell  into  the  abyss  below.  Hundreds  overcome  and  disheart- 
ened, or  exhausted  with  their  previous  wounds,  laid  down  to  die, 
while  the  cold  wind,  as  it  swept  by,  soon  wrought  a  snow-shroud 
for  their  forms.  The  descent  on  the  southern  side  was  worse 
than  the  ascent.  A  freezing  wind  had  hardened  the  snow  into  a 
crust,  so  that  it  frequently  bore  the  soldiers.  Their  bayonets 
were  thrust  into  it  to  keep  them  from  slipping,  and  the  weary  and 
worn  creatures  were  compelled  to  struggle  every  step  to  prevent 
being  borne  away  over  the  precipices  that  almost  momentarily 


58  THE   DESCENT. 


stopped  their  passage.  Yet  even  this  precaution  was  often  vain 
Whole  companies  would  begin  to  slide  together,  and  despite  every 
effort  would  sweep  with  a  shriek  over  the  edge  of  the  precipice 
and  disappear  in  the  untrodden  gulfs  below.  Men  saw  their 
comrades,  by  whose  side  they  had  fought  in  many  a  battle,  shoot 
one  after  another,  over  the  dizzy  verge,  striking  with  their  bayo- 
nets as  they  went,  to  stay  their  progress.  The  beasts  of  burden 
slipped  from  above,  and  rolling  down  on  the  ranks  below,  shot 
away  in  wild  confusion,  men  and  all,  into  the  chasms  that  yawned 
at  their  feet.  As  they  advanced,  the  enemy  appeared  around  on 
the  precipices  pouring  a  scattered  yet  destructive  fire  into  the 
straggling  multitude.  Such  a  sight  these  Alpine  solitudes  never 
saw — such  a  march  no  army  ever  made  before.  In  looking  at 
this  pass  the  traveller  cannot  believe  an  army  of  24,000  men 
were  marched  over  it  through  the  fresh  fallen  snow  two  feet  deep. 
For  five  days  they  struggled  amid  these  gorges  and  over  these 
ridges,  and  finally  reached  the  Rhine  at  Ilanz.  For  months 
after,  the  vulture  and  the  eagle  hovered  incessantly  along  the  line 
of  march,  and  beasts  of  prey  were  gorged  with  the  dead  bodies. 
Nearly  8,000  men  lay  scattered  among  the  glaciers  and  rocks, 
and  piled  in  the  abysses,  amid  which  they  had  struggled  for 
eighteen  days  since  he  first  poured  down  from  the  St.  Gothard, 
and  the  peasants  say  that  the  bones  of  many  an  unburied  soldier 
may  still  be  seen  bleaching  in  the  ravines  of  the  Jatser. 

No  Christian  or  philanthropist  ever  stood  on  a  battle  field  with- 
out mourning  over  the  ravages  of  war  and  asking  himself  when 
that  day  would  come  when  men  would  beat  their  swords  into 
ploughshares  and  their  spears  into  pruning  hooks.  Yet  the  evil 
is  no*t  felt  in  all  its  dreadful  reality  there.  The  movements  of  the 
armies — the  tossing  of  plumes — the  unrolling  of  banners — the 
stirring  strains  of  martial  music — the  charging  squadrons,  and 
the  might  and  magnificence  of  a  great  battle  field  disturb  the 
imagination  and  check  the  flow  of  human  sympathy. 

If  he  wishes  the  feelings  of  horror  and  disgust  in  their  full 
strength,  let  him  go  into  the  solitude  and  holiness  of  nature,  and 
see  where  her  pure  bosom  has  been  disfigured  with  the  blood  of 
her  children.  Let  him  see  his  fellow  beings  falling  by  thousands, 
not  amid  the  uproar  and  excitement  of  battle,  but  under  exhaus- 


SUWARROW  AND  BONAPARTE.  59 

tion,  heart-sickness,  and  despair.  Let  him  behold  the  ranks 
lying  down  one  after  another  under  the  last  discouragement  to 
die,  while  their  comrades  march  mournful  and  silent  by.  There 
is  a  cold-bloodedness,  a  sort  of  savage  malice  about  this  that 
awakens  all  the  detestation  of  the  human  bosom. 

Yet  the  Russian  could  do  no  better.  The  scourge  of  nations 
had  driven  him  into  the  strait.  The  crime  and  the  judgment 
belong  to  Bonaparte,  who  thus  directly  and  indirectly  crowded 
his  generation  into  the  grave.  Suwarrow's  act  was  that  of  a 
brave  and  resolute  man. 


MACDONALD'S  GUIDE. 


XII. 

MACDONALD'S  PASS  OF  THE  SPIUGEN. 


I  WAS  standing  on  a  green  Alpine  pasturage,  looking  off  upon 
the  Splugen  Pass  which  cut  its  way  through  the  white  snow  ridge 
that  lay  against  the  distant  horizon,  when  my  guide  interrupted 
my  musings  by  pointing  to  an  aged  man  sitting  by  his  cottagQ 
door.  "  That  man,"  said  he,  "  was  one  of  Macdonald's  guides 
that  conducted  him  and  his  army  over  the  Splugen."  He  imme- 
diately became  an  object  of  great  interest  to  me,  and  I  went  and 
sat  down  by  his  side,  and  drew  from  him  many  incidents  of  that 
perilous  adventure.  "It  was  forty-three  years  ago,"  said  he, 
"  when  that  awful  march  was  made.  I  was  then  but  twenty-five 
years  of  age,  but  I  remember  it  as  if  it  were  but  yesterday.  I 
have  made  many  passes  in  the  Alps,  but  never  one  like  that. 
That  Macdonald  was  an  awful  man.  He  looked  as  if  he  wanted 
to  fight  the  very  Alps,  and  believed  that  snow-storms  could  be 
beaten  like  an  army  of  men." 

"  I  believe,"  I  replied,  "  that  pass  was  made  in  the  winter,  when 
even  foot  travellers  found  it  difficult."  "  Yes  ;  and  the  wind  blew, 
and  the  snow  drove  in  our  faces,  and  the  avalanches  fell  as  if  the 
very  Alps  were  coming  down.  The  snow,  too,  was  so  thick  at 
times,  that  we  could  not  see  the  horses  or  men  ten  rods  before  or 
behind,  while  the  screaming,  and  yelling,  and  cursing,  made  it  ten 
times  worse.  Why,  sir,  it  did  no  good  to  cry  take  care,  for  no 
one  could  take  care.  There  we  were,  up  to  our  arms  in  snow, 
amid  oxen,  and  horses,  and  cannon,  and  soldiers,  and  compell- 
ed to  stand  for  hours,  without  getting  one  rod  ahead.  Oh,  it 
was  dreadful  to  see  the  poor  soldiers.  Often  I  would  hear 
an  avalanche  coming  from  above,  and  turn  to  see  where  it  fell, 


DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  PASS.  61 

when  it  would  come  thundering  straight  on  to  the  army,  and  cut 
it  clean  in  two,  leaving  a  great  gap  in  the  lines.  A  few  feathers 
tossing  amid  the  snow,  a  musket  or  two  flying  over  the  brink,  and 
away  went  men  and  .all  into  the  gulf  below.  Oh,  sir,  those  poor 
soldiers  looked  as  if  they  never  would  fight  again — so  downcast 
and  frightened.  It  did  no  good  to  have  courage  there,  for  what 
could  courage  do  against  an  avalanche  !  When  God  fights  with 
man,  it  does  no  good  to  resist."  In  this  manner,  though  not  in  the 
precise  words,  the  old  man  rattled  on,  and  it  was  evident  I  could 
get  nothing  from  him  except  separate  incidents  which  gave  life  and 
vividness  to  the  whole  picture.  The  falling  of  a  single  comrade 
by  his  side,  or  the  struggles  of  a  single  war-horse,  as  he  floun- 
dered in  the  mass  of  snow  that  hurried  him  irresistibly  towards 
the  gulf,  made  a  more  distinct  impression  on  him  than  the  general 
movements  of  the  army.  The  deep  beds  of  snow  and  the  walls 
of  ice  he  and  the  peasants  were  compelled  to  cut  through,  were 
more  important  to  him  than  the  order  of  march,  or  the  discipline 
of  the  troops.  How  different  is  the  effect  produced  on  a  powerful 
and  a  common  mind  by  such  a  scene  as  this  !  One  dwells  on  the 
impression  made  by  the  whole.  The  moral  and  physical  gran- 
deur surrounding  it — the  obstacles,  and  the  resolution  that  over- 
come them — the  savageness  of  nature,  and  the  sternness  that 
dared  look  it  in  the  face ;  combine  to  make  the  impression  he  car- 
ries with  him  through  life.  The  weak  mind,  on  the  other  hand, 
never  seems  to  reach  to  these  generalities — never  gets  to  the  outer 
circle,  but  is  occupied  with  details  and  incidents. 

To  understand  this  march  of  Macdonald  over  the  Splugen,  a 
feat  greater  by  far  than  Bonaparte's  famous  passage  of  the  St. 
Bernard,  imagine  an  awful  defile  leading  up  to  the  height  of  six 
thousand.  Jive  hundred  feet  towards  heaven — in  summer  a  mere 
bridle  path,  and  in  winter  a  mass  of  avalanches,  and  you  will 
have  some  conception  of  the  awful  pass  through  which  Macdonald 
determined  to  lead  fiff;een  thousand  men.  The  road  follows  the 
Rhine,  here  a  mere  rivulet,  which  has  cut  its  channel  deep  in  the 
mountains  that  rise  frequently  to  the  height  of  three  thousand  feet 
above  it.  Along  the  precipices  that  overhang  this  turbulent  tor- 
rent, the  path  is  cut  in  the  solid  rock,  now  hugging  the  mountain 
wall  like  a  mere  thread,  and  now  shooting  in  a  single  arch  over 


DIFFICULTIES  OF  THE  PASS. 


the  gorge  that  sinks  three  hundred  feet  below.  Strangely  silent 
snow-peaks  pierce  the  heavens  in  every  direction,  while  dark 
precipices  lean  out  on  every  side  over  the  abyss.  This  mere 
path  crosses  and  re- crosses  again  this  gorge,  and  often  so  high 
above  it,  that  the  roar  of  the  mad  torrent  below  can  scarcely  be 
heard  ;  and  finally  strikes  off  on  to  the  bare  face  of  the  mountain 
and  clambers  up  to  the  summit.  This  is  the  old  road  in  sum- 
mer time.  Now  imagine  this  same  gorge  swept  by  a  hurricane 
of  snow,  and  filled  with  the  awful  sound  of  the  falling  avalanches, 
blending  their  heavy  shock  with  the  dull  roar  of  the  giant  pines, 
that  wave  along  the  precipices,  while  half  way  up  from  the  bot- 
tom to  the  Alpine  top,  are  hanging  like  an  army  of  insects,  fifteen 
thousand  French  soldiers  ;  and  you  will  approach  to  some  know- 
ledge of  this  wintry  pass,  and  this  desperate  march.  But  if  you 
have  never  been  in  an  Alpine  gorge,  and  stood,  awe-struck,  amid 
the  mighty  forms  that  tower  away  on  every  side  around  you,  you 
can  have  no  true  conception  of  a  scene  like  the  one  we  are  to  de- 
scribe. Rocks,  going  like  one  solid  wall  straight  up  to  heaven — 
pinnacles  shooting  like  church  spires  above  the  clouds — ^gloomy 
ravines  where  the  thunder-clouds  burst,  and  the  torrent  raves — 
still  glaciers  and  solemn  snow-fields,  and  leaping  avalanches, 
combine  to  render  an  Alpine  gorge  one  of  the  most  terrific  things 
in  nature.  Added  to  all  this,  you  feel  so  small  amid  the  mighty 
forms  around  you — so  utterly  helpless  and  worthless,  amid  these 
great  exhibitions  of  God's  power,  that  the  heart  is  often  utterly 
overwhelmed  with  the  feelings  that  struggle  in  vain  for  utterance. 
There  is  now  a  carriage  road  over  the  Splugen,  cut  in  sixteen 
zigzags  along  the  breasts  of  the  mountain.  This  was  not  in 
existence  when  Macdonald  made  the  pass,  and  there  was  nothing 
but  a  bridle  path  going  through  the  gorge  of  the  Cardinel.  Over 
such  a  pass  was  Macdonald  ordered  by  Napoleon  to  march  his 
army  in  the  latter  part  of  November,  just  when  the  wintry  storms 
are  setting  in  with  the  greatest  violence.  Bonaparte  wished 
Macdonald  to  form  the  left  wing  of  his  army  in  Italy,  and  had 
therefore  ordered  him  to  attempt  the  passage.  Macdonald,  though 
no  braver  or  bolder  man  ever  lived,  felt  that  it  was  a  hopeless 
undertaking,  and  immediately  despatched  General  Dumas  to 
represent  to  him  the  insuperable  obstacles  in  the  way.     Bona- 


COMMENCEMENT  OF  THE  ASCENT.  63 

parte  heard  him  through  his  representations,  and  then  replied, 
with  his  usual  recklessness  of  other  people's  sufferings  or  death, 
"  I  will  make  no  change  in  my  dispositions.  Return  quickly, 
and  tell  Macdonald  that  an  army  can  always  pass  in  every  sea- 
son, where  two  men  can  place  their  feet." 

Macdonald,  of  course,  could  do  no  otherwise  than  obey  com- 
mands, and  immediately  commenced  the  necessary  preparations 
for  his  desperate  undertaking.  It  was  the  26th  of  November,  and 
the  frequent  storms  had  covered  the  entire  Alps,  pass  and  all,  in 
one  mass  of  yielding  snow.  His  army  was  at  the  upper  Rhein- 
thal  or  Rhine  valley,  at  the  entrance  of  the  dreadful  defile  of  the 
Via  Mala,  the  commencement  of  the  Splugen  pass.  The  cannon 
were  taken  from  their  carriages  and  placed  on  sleds,  to  which 
oxen  were  harnessed.  The  ammunition  was  divided  about  on  the 
backs  of  mules,  while  every  soldier  had  to  carry,  besides  his 
usual  arms,  five  packets  of  cartridges  and  five  days'  provision. 
The  guides  went  in  advance,  and  stuck  down  long  black  poles  to 
indicate  the  course  of  the  path  beneath,  while  behind  them  came 
the  workmen  clearing  away  the  snow,  and  behind  them  still  the 
mounted  dragoons,  with  the  most  powerful,  horses  of  the  army,  to 
beat  down  the  track.  On  the  26th  of  November,  the  first  com- 
pany left  Splugen,  and  began  the  ascent.  The  pass  from  Splu- 
gen to  Isola  is  about  fifteen  miles  in  length,  and  the  advance  com- 
pany had,  after  the  most  wasting  toil  and  exhausting  effort,  made 
nearly  half  of  it,  and  were  approaching  the  hospice  on  the  sum- 
mit, when  a  low  moaning  was  heard  among  the  hills,  like  the 
voice  of  the  sea  before  a  storm.  The  guides  understood  too  well 
its  meaning,  and  gazed  on  each  other  with  alarm.  The  ominous 
sound  grew  louder  every  moment,  and  suddenly  the  fierce  Alpine 
blast  swept  in  a  cloud  of  snow  over  the  mountain,  and  howled, 
like  an  unchained  demon,  through  the  gorge  below.  In  an  in- 
stant all  was  confusion,  and  blinijlness,  and  uncertainty.  The  very 
heavens  were  blotted  out,  and  the  frightened  column  stood  and  lis- 
tened to  the  raving  tempest  that  made  the  pine  trees  above  it  sway 
and  groan,  as  if  lifted  from  their  rock-rooted  places.  But  suddenly 
another  still  more  alarming  sound  was  heard — "  An  avalanche  !  an 
avalanche  !"  shrieked  the  guides,  and  the  next  moment  an  awful 
white  form  came  leaping  down  the  mountain,  and  striking  the 


64  THE  ARMY   IN  A  STORM. 

column  that  was  struggling  along  the  path,  passed  straight  through 
it  into  the  gulf  below,  carrying  thirty  dragoons  and  their  horses 
with  it  in  its  wild  plunge.  The  black  form  of  a  ^teed  and  its 
rider  were  seen  suspended  for  a  moment  in  mid  heavens,  amid 
clouds  of  snow,  and  the  next  moment  they  fell  among  the  ice  and 
rocks  below,  crushed  out  of  the  very  form  of  humanity.  The 
head  of  the  column  reached  the  hospice  in  safety^  The  other 
part,  struck  dumb  by  this  sudden  apparition  crossing  their  path 
in  such  lightning-like  velocity,  bearing  to  such  an  awful  death 
their  brave  comrades,  refused  to  proceed,  and  turned  back  to  the 
village  of  Splugen.  For  three  days  the  storm  raged  amid  the 
Alps,  filling  the  heavens  with  snow,  and  hurling  avalanches  into 
the  path,  till  it  became  so  filled  up  that  the  guides  declared  it 
would  take  fifteen  days  to  open  it  again  so  as  to  make  it  at  all 
passable.  But  fifteen  days  Macdonald  could  not  spare.  Inde- 
pendent of  the  urgency  of  his  commands,  there  was  no  way  to 
provision  his  army  in  these  Alpine  solitudes,  and  he  must  proceed. 
He  ordered  four  of  the  strongest  oxen  that  could  be  found  to  be 
led  in  advance  by  the  best  guides.  Forty  peasants  followed  be- 
hind, clearing  away  and  beating  down  the  snow,  and  two  com- 
panies of  sappers  came  after  to  give  still  greater  consistency  to 
the  track,  while  on  their  heels  marched  the  remnant  of  the  com- 
pany of  dragoons,  part  of  which  had  been  borne  away  three 
days  before  by  the  avalanche.  The  post  of  danger  was  given 
them  at  their  own  request.  Scarcely  had  they  begun  the  danger- 
ous enterprise,  when  one  of  the  noble  oxen  slipped  from  the  preci- 
pice, and  with  a  convulsive  fling  of  his  huge  frame,  went  bound- 
ing from  point  to  point  of  the  jagged  rocks  to  the  deep,  dark  tor- 
rent below. 

It  was  a  strange  sight  for  a  wintry  day.  Those  three  oxen, 
with  their  horns  just  peering  above  the  snow,  toiled  slowly  on, 
pushing  their  unwieldy  bodies  through  the  drifts,  looking  like  mere 
specks  on  the  breast  of  the  mountain,  while  the  soldiers,  up  to 
their  breasts,  struggled  behind.  Not  a  drum  or  bugle-note  cheered 
the  solitude,  or  awoke  the  echoes  of  those  savage  peaks.  The 
foot-fall  gave  back  no  sound  in  the  soft  snow,  and  the  words  of 
command  seemed  smothered  in  the  very  atmosphere.  Silently 
and  noiselessly  the  mighty  but  disordered  column  toiled  forward, 


PARTICULARS  OF  THE  ROUTE.  65 

with  naught  to  break  the  holy  stillness  of  nature,  save  the  fierce 
pantings  of  the  horses  and  animals,  as  with  reeking  sides  they 
strained  up  the  ascent.  Now  and  then  a  fearful  cry  startled  the 
eagle  on  his  high  circuit,  as  a  whole  company  slipped  together, 
and  with  their  muskets  in  their  hands,  fell  into  the  all-devouring 
gorge  that  yawned  hundreds  of  feet  below  their  path.  It  was  a 
wild  sight,  the  plunge  of  a  steed  and  his  rider  over  the  precipice. 
One  noble  horse  slipped  just  as  the  dragoon  had  dismounted,  and 
as  he  darted  off  with  his  empty  saddle,  and  for  a  moment  hung 
suspended  in  mid  heaven,  it  is  said,  he  uttered  one  of  those  fear- 
ful blood-freezing  cries  the  wounded  war-horse  is  known  some- 
times to  give  forth  on  the  field  of  battle.  The  roar  of  the  lion  af- 
ter his  prey,  and  the  midnight  howl  of  the  wolf  that  has  missed 
his  evening  repast  of  blood,  is  a  gentle  sound  compared  to  it. 
Once  heard,  it  lives  in  the  memory  and  brain  for  ever. 

To  understand  the  route  of  the  army  better,  one  should  divide 
the  pass  into  three  parts.  First  comes  the  dark,  deep  defile,  with 
the  path  cut  in  the  side  of  the  mountain,  and  crossing  backwards 
and  forwards  over  the  gorge,  on  bridges  of  a  single  arch,  and  of- 
ten  two  and  three  hundred  feet  high.  The  scenery  in  this  gorge 
is  horrible.  It  seems  as  if  nature  had  broken  up  the  mountains 
in  some  sudden  and  fierce  convulsion,  and  the  very  aspect  of 
everything  is  enough  to  daunt  one  without  the  aid  of  avalanches 
or  hurricanes  of  snow.  After  leaving  this  defile,  the  path  goes 
for  a  few  miles  through  the  valley  of  Schams,  and  then  winds  up 
the  cliffs  of  La  Raffla,  covered  with  pine  trees.  It  then  strikes 
up  the  bare  face  of  the  mountain,  going  sometimes  at  an  angle  of 
forty-five  degrees,  till  it  reaches  the  summit ;  which,  lying  above 
the  region  of  trees,  stands  naked  and  bald  in  the  wintry  heavens. 
This  is  the  old  road — the  new  one  goes  by  a  different  route,  and 
in  summer-time  can  be  traversed  with  carriages.  Such  was  the 
road,  filled  with  snow  and  avalanches,  this  army  of  fifteen  thou- 
sand men  marched  over  in  mid  winter.  They  went  over  in  sep- 
arate columns.  The  progress  and  success  of  the  first  we  have 
already  shown.  The  second  and  third  made  the  attempt  the  sec- 
ond and  third  of  December,  and  achieved  the  ascent  in  safety, 
the  weather  being  clear  and  frosty.  Many,  however,  died  of 
cold.     Their  success  encouraged  Macdonald  to  march  the  whole- 

6 


66  PROGRESS  OF  THE  ARMY. 

remaining  army  over  at  once,  and  for  this  purpose  he  placed  him- 
self at  their  head,  and  on  the  5th  of  December  commenced  the 
ascent.  But  fresh  snow  had  fallen  the  night  before,  covering  up 
the  entire  path,  so  that  the  road  had  all  to  be  made  over  again. 
The  guides  refused  to  go  on,  but  Macdonald  would  not  delay  his 
march,  and  led  his  weary  soldiers  breast  deep  in  the  snow,  up  the 
bleak,  cold  mountain.  They  were  six  hours  in  going  less  than 
six  miles.  They  could  not  make  a  mile  an  hour  in  their  slow 
progress.  They  had  not  advanced  far  in  the  defile  before  they 
came  upon  a  huge  block  of  ice,  and  a  newly-fallen  avalanche, 
that  entirely  filled  up  the  path.  The  guides  halted  before  these 
obstacles  and  refused  to  go  on,  and  the  first  that  Macdonald  knew, 
his  army  had  turned  to  the  right-about  face,  and  were  marching 
back  down  the  mountain,  declaring  the  passage  to  be  closed. 

Hastening  forward,  he  cheered  up  the  men,  and  walking  him- 
self at  the  head  of  the  column  with  a  long  pole  in  his  hand,  to 
sound  the  depth  of  the  treacherous  mass  he  was  treading  upon,  he 
revived  the  drooping  spirits  of  the  soldiers.  "Soldiers,"  said  he, 
"  your  destinies  call  you  into  Italy  ;  advance  and  conquer — first 
the  mountains  and  the  snow,  then  the  plains  and  the  armies."' 
Ashamed  to  see  their  leader  hazarding  his  life  at  every  step 
where  they  refused  to  go,  the  soldiers  returned  cheerfully  to  their 
toil,  and  cut  their  way  through  the  solid  hill  of  ice.  But  they 
had  scarcely  surmounted  this  obstacle,  when  the  voice  of  the  hur- 
ricane on  its  march  was  again  heard,  and  the  next  moment  a 
cloud  of  driving  snow  obliterated  every  thing  from  their  view. 
The  path  was  filled  up,  and  all  traces  of  it  swept  utterly  away. 
Amid  the  screams  of  the  guides,  the  confused  commands  of  the 
officers,  and  the  howling  of  the  hurricane,  was  heard  the  rapid 
thunder-crash  of  avalanches  as  they  leaped  away,  at  the  bidding 
of  the  tempest,  down  the  precipices.  Then  commenced  again  the 
awful  struggle  of  the  army  for  life.  The  foe  they  had  to  contend 
with  was  an  outward  one,  though  not  of  flesh  and  blood.  To 
sword-cut,  bayonet-thrust,  and  the  blaze  of  artillery,  the  strong 
Alpine  storm  was  alike  invulnerable.  On  the  serried  column 
and  the  straggling  line,  it  thundered  with  the  same  reckless  pow- 
er. Over  the  long  black  line  of  soldiers,  the  snow  lay  like  a 
winding-sheet,  and  the  dirge  seemed  already  chanted  for  the  dead 


PASSAGE  OF  THE  LAST  DIVISION.  e? 

army.  No  one  who  has  not  seen  an  Alpine  storm  can  imagine 
the  reckless  energy  with  which  it  rages  through  the  mountains. 
The  light  snow,  borne  aloft  on  its  bosom,  was  whirled  and  scat- 
tered like  an  ocean  of  mist  over  all  things.  The  drifts  were  piled 
like  second  mountains  in  every  direction,  and  seemed  to  form  in- 
stantaneously, as  by  the  touch  of  a  magician's  wand.  The  blind- 
ing fury  of  the  tempest  baffled  all  efforts  to  pierce  the  mystery 
and  darkness  that  enveloped  the  host  clinging  in  despair  to  the 
breast  of  the  mountain.  The  storm  had  sounded  its  trumpet  for 
the  charge,  but  no  answering  note  of  defiance  replied.  The 
heroes  of  so  many  battle  fields  stood  in  still  terror  before  this  new 
and  mightier  foe.  Crowding  together  as  if  proximity  added  to 
their  security,  the  mighty  column  crouched  and  shivered  to  the 
blast  that  pierced  their  very  bones  with  its  chilling  power.  But 
this  was  not  all — the  piercing  cold,  and  drifting  snow,  and  raving 
tempest,  and  concealed  pit-falls,  leading  to  untrodden  abysses, 
were  not  enough  to  complete  the  scene  of  terror.  Suddenly,  from 
the  summit  of  the  Splugen,  avalanches  began  to  fall,  whose  path 
crossed  that  of  the  army.  Scaling  the  breast  of  the  mountain 
with  a  single  leap,  they  came  with  a  crash  on  the  shivering 
column,  and  bore  it  away  to  the  destruction  that  waited  beneath. 
Still,  with  undaunted  front  and  unyielding  will,  the  bold  Macdon- 
ald  struggled  on  in  front,  inspiring  by  his  example,  as  he  never 
could  have  done  by  his  commands,  the  officers  and  men  under 
him.  Prodigies  were  wrought  where  effort  seemed  useless.  The 
first  avalanche,  as  it  smote  through  the  column,  paralyzed  for  a 
moment  every  heart  with  fear ;  but  they  soon  began  to  be  viewed 
like  so  many  discharges  of  artillery,  and  the  gaps  they  made, 
like  the  gaps  a  discharge  of  grape-shot  frequently  made  in  the 
lines  on  a  field  of  battle.  Those  behind  closed  up  the  rent  with 
unfaltering  courage.  Hesitation  was  death.  The  only  hope  was 
in  advancing,  and  the  long  and  straggling  line  floundered  on  in  the 
snow,  like  a  huge  anaconda  winding  itself  over  the  mountain. 
Once,  as  an  avalanche  cut  through  the  ranks,  bearing  them  away 
to  the  abyss,  a  young  man  was  seen  to  wave  an  adieu  to  his 
young  comrade  left  behind,  as  he  disappeared  over  the  crag. 
The  surviving  companion  stept  into  the  path  where  it  had 
swept,  and  before  he  had  crossed  it,  a  laggard  block  of  ice  came 


GREATNESS  OF  THE  FEAT. 


thundering  down,  and  bore  him  away  to  join  his  comrade  in  the 
gulf  where  his  crushed  form  still  lay  throbbing.  The  extreme 
density  of  the  atmosphere,  filled  as  it  was  with  snow,  gave  ten- 
fold horror  to  these  mysterious  messengers  of  death,  as  they  came 
down  the  mountain  declivities.  A  low  rumbling  would  be  heard 
amid  the  pauses  of  the  storm,  and  as  the  next  shriek  of  the  blast 
swept  by,  a  rushing,  as  if  a  counter-blast  smote  the  ear ;  and 
before  the  thought  had  time  to  change,  a  rolling,  leaping,  broken 
mass  of  snow  burst  through  the  thick  atmosphere,  and  the  next 
moment,  crushed,  with  the  sound  of  thunder,  far,  far  below,  bear- 
ing along  a  part  of  the  column  to  its  deep,  dark  resting-place. 

On  the  evening  of  the  6th  December,  the  greater  part  of  the 
army  had  passed  the  mountain,  and  the  van  had  pushed  even  to 
Lake  Como.  From  the  26th  of  November  to  the  6th  of  Decem- 
ber, or  nearly  two  weeks,  had  Macdonald  been  engaged  in  this 
perilous  pass.  A  less  energetic,  indomitable  man  would  have 
failed,  and  he  himself  had  escaped  utter  destruction,  almost  by  a 
miracle.  As  it  was,  he  left  between  one  and  two  hundred  men 
in  the  abysses  of  the  Splugen,  who  had  slipped  from  the  preci- 
pices or  been  carried  away  by  avalanches,  during  the  toilsome 
march.  More  than  a  hundred  horses  and  mules  had  also  been 
hurled  into  those  untrodden  abysses,  to  furnish  food  for  the  eagle, 
and  raven,  and  beasts  of  prey. 

This  passage  of  the  Splugen,  by  an  army  of  fifteen  thousand 
men,  in  the  dead  of  winter,  and  amid  hurricanes  of  snow  and 
falling  avalanches,  stands  unrivalled  in  the  history  of  the  world, 
unless  the  passage  of  the  Pragel  by  Suwarrow  be  its  counterpart. 
It  is  true,  Bonaparte  spoke  disparagingly  of  it,  because  he  wished 
his  passage  over  the  St.  Bernard  in  summer  time,  to  stand  alone 
beside  Hannibal's  famous  march  over  the  same  mountain.  With 
all  his  greatness,  Bonaparte  had  some  miserably  mean  traits  of 
character.  He  could  not  bear  to  have  one  of  his  generals  per- 
form a  greater  feat  than  himself,  and  so  he  deliberately  lied  about 
this  achievement  of  Macdonald's.  In  his  despatches  to  the  French 
government,  he  made  it  out  a  small  affair,  while  he  had  the  impu- 
dence to  declare  that  this  "  march  of  Macdonald  produced  no 
good  effect."  Now  one  of  three  things  is  true  :  Bonaparte  either 
was  ignorant  of  his  true  situation,  and  commanded  the  passage 


BONAPARTE'S  DISHONESTY. 


of  the  Splugen  to  be  made  under  a  false  alarm ;  or  else  it  was  a 
mere  whim,  in  which  his  recklessness  of  the  lives  and  comfort 
of  his  countrymen  is  deserving  of  greater  condemnation  than  his 
ignorance ;  or  else  he  has  uttered  a  falsehood  as  gross  as  it  is 
mean.  The  truth  is,  Bonaparte  thought  posterity  could  be  cheat- 
ed as  easily  as  his  cotemporaries.  In  the  dazzling  noon-day  of 
his  fame,  he  could  make  a  flattering  press  say  what  he  liked,  and 
the  world  would  believe  it ;  but  the  tumult  and  false  splendour  of 
his  life  have  passed  away,  and  men  begin  to  scrutinize  this  demi- 
god a  little  more  closely ;  and  we  find  that  his  word  cannot  be 
relied  on  in  the  least,  when  speaking  of  the  character  and  deeds 
of  others.  He  is  willing  to  have  no  planet  cross  his  orbit,  and 
will  allow  no  glory  except  as  it  is  reflected  from  him.  But  not- 
withstanding his  efforts  to  detract  from  the  merit  of  this  act  of 
Macdonald,  posterity  will  put  it  in  its  true  light,  and  every  intelli- 
gent reader  of  the  accounts  of  the  two  passages  of  the  St.  Ber- 
nard and  the  Splugen,  will  perceive  at  a  glance  that  Bonaparte's 
achievement  is  mere  child's  play  beside  that  of  Macdonald. 


MOUNT  RIGHI. 


XIII. 
THE  RIGHI  CULM 


From  the  top  of  the  Righi  is  seen  one  of  the  most  celebrated 
views  in  all  Switzerland.  The  magnificent  prospect  it  commands 
is  not  owing  so  much  to  its  height  (it  being  only  5700  feet  above 
the  level  of  the  sea)  as  to  its  isolated  position.  It  rises  like  a 
cone  up  from  Lakes  Lucerne  and  Zug,  with  a  forest  round  its 
waist,  and  a  lofty  precipice  for  its  forehead  sloping  away  into 
green  pasturages. 

I  went  by  way  of  Kussnacht,  in  order  to  visit  the  spot  where 
William  Tell  leaped  ashore  from  the  boat  that  was  conveying 
him  a  prisoner  to  that  place,  and  sent  an  arrow  through  the  heart 
of  Gessler.  By  this  route  it  takes  seven  hours  to  reach  the  Culm 
of  the  Righi  from  Lucerne.  I  had  started  with  many  misgivings, 
and  with  depressed  feelings.  The  companions  of  my  travels  had 
had  enough  of  mountain  climbing  and  of  Switzerland,  and  here 
resolved  to  start  for  England.  It  requires  no  common  resolution 
to  break  away  from  all  one's  companions  in  a  strange  land,  and 
turn  one's  footsteps  alone  towards  the  Alps.  But  the  Righi  I  was 
determined  to  see,  and  the  surpassing  prospect  from  its  summit, 
even  though  I  waited  a  week  to  enjoy  it. 

But  all  this  was  forgotten  for  a  while  as  I  entered  the  Hohle- 
gasse  or  narrow  way  where  Tell  lay  concealed,  waiting  the  ty- 
rant's approach.  I  could  imagine  the  very  look  of  this  bold  free 
Swiss,  as  concealed  among  the  trees  he  drew  the  silent  arrow  to 
its  head,  and  sent  it  on  its  mission  of  death.  The  shout  of  a  free 
people  was  in  the  twang  of  that  bow,  and  the  hand  of  Liberty 
herself  sent  the  bolt  home ;  while  in  that  manly  form  that  went 
leaping  like  a  chamois  over  the  hills,  was  the  hope  of  Switzer- 


WILLIAM  TELL.  71 


land.  From  this  hallowed  spot  I  began  the  toilsome  ascent  of  the 
Righi  with  no  companion  but  my  guide.  It  was  a  bright  summer 
afternoon,  and  stripping  off  my  coat  and  handing  it  with  my  cloak 
to  my  guide,  I  nerved  myself  for  my  four  hours  of  constant 
climbing.  When  about  half  way  up,  1  sat  down  and  looked  back 
on  the  scene.  There  was  Lucerne,  from  which  my  companions 
were  just  about  starting  for  England  and  for  home.  Away  from 
it  into  the  very  bosom  of  the  mountains  went  the  sweet  Lake  of 
Lucerne.  Close  at  my  feet,  apparently,  nestled  the  little  chapel 
of  Tell,  built  on  the  spot  where  the  patriot  slew  the  tyrant,  while 
far  away  swept  the  land  of  the  Swiss.  As  an  American,  I  could 
not  view  the  land  of  Tell  and  Winkelried,  and  look  down  on  the 
shores  where  the  "  oath  of  the  Grutli"  was  taken,  and  Switzer- 
land made  her  first  stand  for  freedom,  without  the  deepest  emo- 
tion. There  slept  the  sweet  Lake  of  Lucerne  calm  and  tranquil 
as  the  heavens  above  it.  But  there  was  a  night  when  its  waters 
were  lashed  into  fury  by  an  Alpine  storm,  and  close  beside  those 
old  rocks  struggled  a  frail  vessel  hopelessly  with  the  tempest. 
The  lightning,  as  it  rent  the  gloom,  showed  ever  and  anon  its 
half-buried  form  amid  the  waves.  The  torn  sail  was  shivering 
in  the  blast,  while  the  roar  of  the  billows  on  the  rocks  fell  dis- 
tinctly on  the  ears  of  the  appalled  listeners,  as  they  looked  to 
each  other  for  help  in  vain.  A  tyrant  stood  trembling  on  its 
foam-covered  deck,  and  asked  if  there  was  no  help.  A  stern 
proud  prisoner  was  brought  before  him,  and  looked  calmly  out 
upon  the  frightful  deep.  "  Unbind  him,"  said  the  tyrant — "  he 
alone  can  save  us."  The  chains  were  knocked  off;  and  with  the 
same  calm,  silent  mien,  he  seized  the  helm  and  guided  the  leap- 
ing vessel  safely  amid  the  rocks.  The  boat  is  ashore,  but  where 
is  the  prisoner  ?  Fled  ?  aye,  fled  !  but  not  for  safety  alone. 
The  night  covers  him,  and  the  tyrant  has  entered  the  narrow 
gorge  on  his  way  to  his  home.  A  sharp  twang  as  of  a  bow- 
string, — a  quick,  hissing  sound  through  the  air,  and  Gessler  falls 
back  in  the  arms  of  his  attendants,  with  an  arrow  in  his  bosom. 
"  Das  war  TelVs  Schoss  .'"  exclaimed  the  tyrant  and  died.  Then 
rang  the  battle  cry  of  Freedom  along  these  shores,  and  from  her 
hundred  mountain  vallies  came  pouring  down  the  hardy  Swiss. 
With  the  sword  of  Tell  to  wave  them  on,  they  bravely  battled 


72  ASCENT  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

their  way  to  freedom.  Blessings  on  thee,  bold  Swiss  !  thy  name 
is  a  watchword  for  freemen  and  ever  shall  be.  Around  it  cluster 
the  fondest  memories  of  the  patriot,  and  children  love  to  speak  it 
aloud.  But  ah,  how  degenerate  has  the  race  become  !  Cor- 
rupted and  debased  by  the  French,  their  freedom  and  their  hon- 
esty have  departed  together. 

I  turned  to  ascend  the  mountain  again.  Crossing  a  narrow 
level  pasturage,  I  was  greeted  with  the  tinkling  of  bells,  and  the 
clear  voices  of  shepherd  boys  singing  in  a  shrill  falsetto  their  wild 
Alpine  chorusses.  As  I  drew  near  the  top,  I  passed  a  boy  lean- 
ing against  a  rock,  and  making  the  air  ring  with  the  tones  of  his 
Alpine  horn.  A  few  moments  after  a  cloud  of  mist  swept  over 
the  mountain,  burying  every  thing  in  twilight  gloom  and  chilling 
my  blood  like  the  sudden  entrance  to  a  damp  vault.  The  sun, 
which  a  moment  before  shone  over  me  in  unclouded  brightness, 
was  snatched  from  my  sight,  and  I  stumbled  on  in  a  cloud  to  the 
house  on  the  top.  The  wind  swept  by  in  gusts,  making  the  mist 
dive  and  plunge  and  leap  through  the  air  like  mad  spirits.  Now 
it  would  rise  towards  me  as  I  looked  over  the  precipice,  like  the 
smoke  from  some  vast  furnace,  and  then  plunge  again  into  the 
gulfs  below,  while  the  fragments  writhed  and  twisted  together  as 
if  tortured  into  agony  by  some  invisible  agency.  I  had  scarcely 
entered  the  house  before  a  cold  chill  seized  me  that  seemed  im- 
possible to  shake  off,  and  which  the  good  woman  of  the  house  had 
the  kindness  to  tell  me,  unless  I  did,  would  end  in  a  fever  in  the 
morning.  I  should  have  brought  some  dry  clothing  with  me,  but 
forgot  it.  Fire  and  water,  brandy  and  wine,  were  tried  in  suc- 
cession, but  still  I  kept  shaking.  As  a  last  resort  I  cleared  the 
largest  room  in  the  house,  and  then  wrapping  my  heavy  cloak 
around  me,  began  to  leap  and  run  and  throw  myself  into  the  most 
difficult  postures,  to  the  no  small  wonderment  of  the  quiet  Swiss. 
But  in  half  an  hour  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  the  blood  flow 
warmer  and  hotter  through  my  veins,  while  the  perspiration  stood 
in  drops  on  my  forehead.  I  had  conquered,  and  after  resting  a 
while,  went  out  to  the  verge  of  the  cliff  which  shoots  its  naked 
wall  two  hundred  feet  clear  down  to  Lake  Zug,  and  endeavoured 
to  pierce  the  cloud  that  had  changed  day  into  night.  I  knew  it 
was  not  yet  sundown,  and  hoped  I  might  see  its  last  rays  falling 


VIEW  AT  EVENING.  73 

over  the  magnificent  panoranna  which  I  knew  was  spread  out  be- 
low me.  It  was  all  in  vain  :  that  cloud  closed  round  the  summit 
like  a  gloomy  fate,  and  shut  all  out  of  sight.  But  suddenly,  as  I 
was  gazing,  a  lake  of  fire,  miles  away,  burst  on  the  view,  one 
half  red  as  a  flame,  and  the  other  half  midnight  blackness,  streaked 
with  a  murky  red.  The  next  moment  it  shut  again,  and  in  an- 
other direction  another  fiery  surface  flashed  up  into  the  awful 
blackness,  reminding  me  more  than  anything  I  ever  saw,  of  what  a 
distant  view  of  perdition  might  be.  This  strange  spectacle  was 
caused  by  the  cloud  opening  before  me  and  revealing  a  portion 
of  a  distant  lake,  while  the  mist  was  still  dense  enough  to  refract 
the  rays  of  the  sun,  giving  that  dark  smoky  red  you  sometimes 
see  on  the  edge  of  a  thunder-cloud,  as  it  rolls  up  at  sunset  after  a 
scorching  day.  I  sat  up  till  late  at  night  reading  Schiller's  Wil- 
liam Tell,  and  then  retired  giving  directions  to  be  waked  up  early 
in  the  morning  to  see  the  sun  rise.  I  had  many  misgivings,  I 
confess,  about  the  morning,  and  the  verse  composed  once  by  an 
Englishman  who  made  the  ascent,  and  which  were  the  last  words 
uttered  by  my  companions  as  I  bade  them  good  bye,  were  con- 
stantly running  in  my  head. 

Seven  weary  up-hill  leagues  we  sped  ^ 

The  setting  sun  to  see : 
Sullen  and  grim  he  went  to  bed ; 

Sullen  and  grim  went  we. 
Nine  sleepless  hours  of  night  we  passed 

The  rising  sun  to  see : 
Sullen  and  grim  he  rose  again  ; 

Sullen  and  grim  rose  we. 

I  passed  the  hours  sleepless  enough,  and  when  I  rose  to  look 
out  in  the  morning,  an  impenetrable  mist  seemed  to  wrap  every 
thing.  I  was  just  crawling  back  to  bed  again  when  I  thought  I 
would  take  another  look.  Passing  my  hand  over  the  glass,  I 
found  what  1  had  taken  for  mist  was  simply  the  vapour  condensed 
on  the  window.     A  clear  blue  sky  was  bending  overhead. 

In  a  few  moments  I  was  standing  on  the  brow  of  the  precipice 
and  watching  with  intense  interest  the  scene  around  me.  On  my 
right  stood,  cold  and  silent,  white  and  awful,  the  whole  range  of 
the  Bernese  Alps.     Close  under  me,  hundreds  of  feet  down,  lay 


?4  VIEW  AT  SUNRISE. 

the  waters  of  the  Zug,  and  yet  so  close  to  the  mountain  on  which 
I  stood,  that  it  seemed  as  if  I  could  kick  a  stone  into  it.  On  the 
left  spread  away  the  glorious  Swiss  land,  sprinkled  over  with  vil- 
lages and  lakes.  Behind  me  was  the  Lucerne  throwing  its  arms 
away  into  the  heart  of  the  mountains,  while  forests,  rivers,  towns, 
hills  and  lakes,  formed  together  a  panorama  three  hundred  miles 
in  circumference.  While  I  stood  gazing,  awe-struck,  on  the 
silent  majestic  scene  as  it  lay  motionless  in  the  gray  light  of 
morning,  a  golden  streak  spread  along  the  East.  Brighter  and 
brighter  it  grew  till  the  snow-peak  nearest  it  caught  the  same 
fiery  glow,  and  stood  tipped  with  flame  over  the  world  of  snow 
below.  Suddenly  another  peak  flashed  up  beside  it,  and  then 
another  and  another,  till  for  nearly  a  hundred  miles,  from  the 
Sentis  to  the  Jungfrau,  the  whole  range  of  giant  summits,  stood 
a  deep  rose  colour  against  a  blue  sky,  while  vast  snow-fields 
and  glaciers  slept  in  deep  shadow  between.  I  stood  bewildered 
and  amazed,  gazing  on  that  hundred  miles  of  rose-coloured 
mountains.  It  seemed  for  the  time  as  if  the  Deity  had  thrown 
the  robe  of  his  glory  over  those  gigantic  forms  on  purpose  to  see 
how  they  became  their  gorgeous  apparelling.  Gradually  they 
paled  away  as  the  blazing  fiery  ball  rolled  into  view  and  poured 
a  flood  of  light  on  the  whole  scene,  waking  the  landscape  into 
sudden  life  and  beauty.  It  is  impossible  to  describe  such  a 
scene.  The  whole  range  of  the  Bernese  Alps  before  you,  with 
its  peaks,  and  glaciers,  and  precipices,  and  snow -fields,  and 
gorges,  is  a  scene  in  itself  which  has  no  parallel  in  the  world, 
while  the  sudden  change  from  ghostly  white  to  a  transparent  red, 
fading  gradually  away  into  a  delicate  rose-colour,  renders  the 
spectator  unable  to  seize  any  one  thing  which  would  give  spe- 
ciality to  the  whole.  I  have  never  felt  the  utter  powerlessness 
of  words  and  feebleness  of  all  comparisons  as  in  attempting  to 
describe  such  a  scene  as  spreads  away  on  the  vision  from  Mount 
Righi  at  sunrise. 

But  cast  your  eye  round  the  horizon  now  the  full  light  of  day 
is  on  it.  To  the  west  the  country  opens  like  a  map,  with  the 
whole  canton  of  Lucerne  in  view,  while  far  away,  a  mere  pool, 
glitters  the  Lake  of  Sempach,  whose  shores  are  one  of  Switzer- 
land's glorious  battle  fields.     The  eye  passes  on  over  Lucerne 


AFTER  SUNRISE.  75 


and  the  gloomy  Pilatus,  and  finally  leaves  the  western  horizon  on 
the  Jura  mountains.  On  the  south  spring  up  into  heaven  that 
whole  glorious  chain  of  the  high  Alps  of  Berne,  Unterwalden  and 
Uri  in  one  unbroken  ridge  of  peaks  and  glaciers.  On  the  east 
still  stretches  away  the  Alpine  chain,  folding  in  the  cantons  of 
Glarus  and  Appenzel,  and  the  Muotta  Thai,  that  wild  valley 
where  Suwarrow  and  Massena  fought  their  bloody  battles  on  ground 
that  even  the  chamois  hunter  scarce  dared  to  tread.  Nearer 
by  rises  the  mass  of  the  Rossberg,  with  the  whole  chasm  made 
by  its  terrible  avalanche  of  earth,  as  it  rolled  down  on  Goldau, 
plainly  in  view.  To  the  north  peeps  out  Lake  Zurich,  with  here 
and  there  a  white  roof  of  the  town  ;  and  the  spire  of  the  chapel 
where  Zwingli  fell  in  battle.  The  towns  of  Arth  and  Zug  are 
also  visible,  and  a  bare  hand's  breadth  of  Lake  Egeri,  on  whose 
shores  the  Swiss  fought  and  gained  the  battle  of  Mortgarten. 
The  Black  Forest  hills  shut  in  the  view.  It  is  a  glorious  pano- 
rama, changing  from  grand  to  beautiful  and  back  again,  till  the 
heart  staggers  under  the  emotions  that  crowd  it,  asking  in  vain 
for  utterance.  But  the  eye  will  turn  again  and  again  to  that 
wondrous  chain  of  white  peaks,  resting  so  clear  and  pure  and 
cold  against  the  morning  sky,  and  the  lips  will  murmur — 


The  hills,  the  everlasting  hills, 
How  peerlessly  they  rise, 

Like  earth's  gigantic  sentinels 
Discoursing  in  the  skies." 


76  MOUNT  ROSSBERG 


XIV. 

GOIDAU-FALI  OF  THE  ROSSBERG. 


As  I  descended  the  Righi  towards  Goldau  I  had  a  clear  and 
distinct  view  of  the  whole  side  of  the  Rossberg.  This  mountain, 
so  renowned  in  history,  is  about  5,000  feet  high,  with  an  unbroken 
slope  reaching  down  to  Goldau.  The  top  of  the  mountain  is  com- 
posed of  pudding  stone,  called  by  the  Germans  Nagelflue,  or  nail 
head,  from  the  knobs  on  the  surface.  The  whole  strata  of  this 
mountain  are  tilted  from  Lake  Zug  towards  Goldau,  and  slope, 
like  the  roof  of  a  house,  down  to  the  village.  The  frightful  land 
slide,  which  buried  the  village  and  inhabitants  of  Goldau,  was 
about  three  miles  long,  a  thousand  feet  broad,  and  a  hundred  feet 
thick.  The  fissure  runs  up  and  down  the  mountain,  and  the  mass 
slid  away  from  its  bed,  till  acquiring  momentum  and  velocity,  it 
broke  into  fragments,  and  rolled  and  thundered  down  the  moun- 
tain, burying  the  village  a  hundred  feet  deep.  The  afternoon  of 
the  catastrophe,  the  Rossberg  gave  ominous  signs  of  some  ap- 
proaching convulsion.  Rocks  started  spontaneously  from  its  bo- 
som, and  thundered  down  its  sides ;  the  springs  of  water  suddenly 
ceased  to  flow ;  birds  flew  screaming  through  the  air ;  the  pine 
tfees  of  the  forest  rocked  and  swayed  without  any  blast,  and  the 
whole  surface  of  the  mountain  seemed  gradually  sliding  towards 
the  plain.  A  party  of  eleven  travellers  from  Berne  was  on  its 
way  to  the  Righi  at  the  time.  Seven  of  them  happened  to  be 
ahead,  and  the  other  four  saw  them  enter  the  village  of  Goldau 
just  as  they  observed  a  strange  commotion  on  the  summit  of  the 
Rossberg.  As  they  raised  their  glass  to  notice  this  more  definitely, 
a  shower  of  stones  shot  off  from  the  top  and  whirled  like  cannon 
balls  through  the  air  above  their  heads.     The  next  moment  a 


OVERTHROW  OF  GOLDAU.  77 

cloud  of  du5t  filled  the  valley,  while  from  its  bosom  came  a  wild 
uproar,  as  if  nature  was  breaking  up  from  her  deep  foundations. 
The  Rossberg  was  on  the  march  for  Goldau  with  the  strength  and 
terror  of  an  earthquake.  The  cloud  cleared  away  and  nothing 
but  a  wild  waste  of  rocks  and  earth  was  above  where  the  smiling 
villages  of  Goldau,  Bussingen  and  Rothen  stood  before.  One 
hundred  and  eleven  houses,  and  more  than  two  hundred  stables 
and  chalets  had  disappeared ;  carrying  down  with  them  in  their 
dark  burial  nearly  five  hundred  human  beings.  The  Lake  of 
Lowertz  was  half  filled  with  mud,  while  the  immense  rocks  trav- 
ersed  the  valley  its  entire  width,  and  were  hurled  far  up  the 
Righi,  mowing  down  the  trees  like  cannon  shot.  The  inhabitants 
of  the  neighbouring  villages  heard  the  grinding  crushing  sound,  as 
of  mountains  falling  together,  and  beheld  the  cloud  of  dust  that 
darkened  the  air.  Five  minutes  after  and  all  was  hushed,  and 
the  quiet  rain  came  down  as  before,  and  as  it  had  done  during  the 
day,  but  no  longer  on  human  dwellings.  It  fell  on  the  grave  of 
nearly  500  men,  women  and  children,  crushed  and  mangled,  and 
pressed  uncoffined  into  their  mother  earth.  Nothing  was  left  of 
the  villages  and  pasturages  that  stood  in  the  valley  but  the  bell 
of  the  church  of  Goldau,  which  was  carried  a  mile  and  a  half 
from  the  steeple  in  which  it  hung.  When  the  Lake  of  Lowertz, 
five  miles  off*,  received  the  torrent  of  earth  into  its  bosom,  it  threw 
a  wave  seventy  feet  high  clear  over  the  island  of  Schwanau,  and 
rolled  up  on  to  the  opposite  shore,  bringing  back,  in  its  reflux,  houses 
with  their  inhabitants.  The  friends  whom  their  fellow  travellers 
had  seen  enter  the  village  of  Goldau  just  as  the  mountain  started 
on  its  march,  were  never  seen  more. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day,  as  I  sat  and  looked  over  this  chaos  of 
rocks  and  earth.  The  Lake  of  Lowertz  slept  quietly  under  the 
summer  sun,  and  the  bell  of  Goldau  was  ringing  out  its  merry 
peal  in  the  very  face  of  the  Rossberg,  that  seemed  to  look  down 
with  a  stern  and  savage  aspect  on  the  ruin  at  his  feet.  The  deep 
gash  in  his  forehead  and  his  riven  side  still  remain  as  fresh  as  if 
made  but  yesterday.  I  wandered  over  the  ground  all  ridged  and 
broken,  just  as  it  was  at  the  close  of  that  terrible  day,  with  feel- 
ings of  the  profoundest  melancholy.  A  few  scattered  houses  had 
been  built  on  the  debris  of  rocks  and  stone,  and  here  and  there 


IB  TRADITION  OF  LAKE  LOWERTZ. 

was  a  mockery  of  a  garden,  which  the  unconscious  husbandman 
was  endeavouring  to  till  above  the  bones  of  his  father.  A  gloom 
rests  on  all  the  valley,  and  Rossberg  seems  sole  monarch  here. 

"  Mountains  have  fallen 

Leaving  a  gap  in  the  clouds,  and  with  the  shock 
Rocking  their  Alpine  brethren,  filling  up 
The  ripe  green  vallies  with  destruction's  splinters, 
Damming  the  rivers  with  a  sudden  dash, 
Which  crushed  the  waters  into  mist,  and  made 
Their  fountains  find  another  channel :  thus — 
Thus,  in  its  old  age,  did  Mount  Rossberg." 

On  the  island  of  Schwanau,  in  Lake  Lowertz,  is  the  ruin  of  a 
castle  destroyed  by  the  Swiss  to  revenge  the  violence  done  by  its 
owner  to  a  young  woman.  There  is  a  tradition  attached  to  it 
wild  enough  to  form  the  ground-work  of  half  a  dozen  novels.  It 
is  said  that  once  a  year  shrieks  are  heard  to  ring  from  it,  and 
immediately  after,  the  ghost  of  the  old  villain  shoots  by,  pressed 
hard  after  by  the  spirit  of  the  pale,  wronged  girl,  bearing  a  torch 
in  her  hand,  and  screaming  terrifically  on  his  flying  traces.  For 
a  while  he  escapes  his  frail  pursuer,  but  at  length  she  forces  him 
into  the  lake,  where  he  sinks  with  hideous  groans.  A  wild  chaos 
of  tones  and  fearful  yells  rings  up  from  the  shore  as  the  waves 
close  over  him,  and  the  scene  is  ended.  The  good  people  need 
not  be  so  anxious  to  insure  the  doom  of  the  old  wretch.  The 
spirit  of  that  pale  girl  is  avenged  without  all  this  trouble,  and  the 
waves  that  close  over  him  are  more  terrible  than  the  waters  of 
Lowertz. 

I  walked  from  Goldau  to  Arth  all  alone,  and  amused  myself 
with  watching  the  groups  of  peasantry  that  constantly  passed  me 
with  curious  looks.  It  was  some  fete  day,  and  they  were  all  clad 
in  their  holiday  dresses,  and  went  smiling  on,  as  cheerful  as  the 
bright  day  about  them.  They  would  accost  me  in  the  most  plea- 
sant manner,  and  I  was  constantly  greeted  with  "  guten  morgen" 
or  "  gut  Tag,"  that  made  me  feel  as  if  I  were  among  friends. 
As  I  entered  the  hotel  at  Arth,  the  first  thing  that  met  my  eye 
was  my  trunk.  Its  familiar  look  was  as  welcome  as  the  face  of 
a  friend,  and,  childish  as  it  may  seem,  I  felt  less  solitary  than 
when  last  and  alone  I  entered  the  quiet  inn. 


ZWINGLI.  79 


There  is  an  excellent  arrangement  in  Switzerland,  by  which 
one  can  mail  his  baggage  as  he  can  a  letter,  to  any  town  on  the 
mail  route  in  the  whole  country.  The  traveller  enters  his  differ- 
ent articles,  takes  his  ticket,  and  then  can  go  off  into  the  Alps, 
and  be  gone  for  two  months  without  the  least  concern.  My  cork 
sole  boots,  with  which  I  had  climbed  every  pass,  gave  out  at  Gol- 
dau,  but  by  dint  of  strings,  etc.,  I  made  them  do  till  I  reached 
Arth,  where  I  was  compelled  to  abandon  the  trustiest  companions 
of  all  my  travels ;  and  left  them  standing  in  the  inn,  with  their 
tops  leaning  over  one  side,  in  the  most  dolorous,  reproachful  man- 
ner imaginable.  It  is  curious  how  one  becomes  attached  to  every 
thing  he  carries  about  him  in  the  Alps.  I  have  known  the  most 
unsentimental  men  carry  their  Alpine  stock  across  the  Atlantic 
with  them. 

The  ride  through  the  canton  of  Zug  to  Zurich  was  one  of  the 
pleasantest  I  took  in  Switzerland,  and  I  verily  believe  this  is  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  cantons  in  it.  There  was  a  neatness  in  the 
dwellings  and  costumes  of  the  inhabitants  I  had  not  noticed  before. 
I  passed  by  the  spot  where  Zwingli  the  Reformer  fell,  in  the 
midst  of  his  flock,  transfixed  by  a  sword  ;  and  by  the  monument 
erected  to  commemorate  the  place  where  Henry  Von  Hunenberg 
shot  an  arrow  from  the  Austrian  lines  into  the  Swiss  camp  bearing 
the  sentence  "  Beware  of  Mortgarten."  The  Swiss  took  the 
advice,  and  won  the  battle,  and  their  descendants  have  reared 
this  memento  of  the  bold  young  patriot.  Before  entering  Zurich, 
as  we  came  in  sight  of  the  lake  almost  its  entire  length,  I  had 
one  of  the  finest  lake  views  I  ever  beheld.  The  beautiful  shores 
sprinkled  with  white  dwellings ;  the  town  itself,  and  its  gardens, 
and  the  distant  mountains,  combined  to  render  it  a  perfect  picture. 
Zurich  is  a  pleasant  town,  and  reminded  me  more  of  home  than 
any  place  on  the  continent.  Its  white  dwellings  surrounded  with 
gardens  and  grounds,  carried  me  back  in  a  moment  to  New  Eng- 
land. I  spent  the  Sabbath  here,  and  was  surprised  to  find  in  this 
home  of  Zwingli — this  Protestant  canton — so  little  respect  paid 
to  its  sanctity.  Towards  evening  the  military  were  reviewed 
on  the  public  square,  while  on  one  side  was  a  public  exhibition  of 
rope-dancers  and  tumblers,  and  among  the  tumblers  two  rosy- 
cheeked  peasant  girls.     This   is   a   Protestant   canton    indeed. 


80  SABBATH  IN  ZURICH. 

Protestant  it  may  be,  but  this  was  no  Protestant  Sabbath.  Yet, 
externally,  Zurich  is  one  of  the  pleasantest  towns  in  Switzerland. 
The  views  around  it  are  beautiful,  while  the  rural  aspect  of  the 
whole  gives  it  a  charm  few  Swiss  villages  possess.  I  love  the 
land  of  the  bold  Swiss ;  I  love  its  lakes  and  snow-peaks  and 
smiling  vallies ;  but  alas  for  its  inhabitants.  Their  glory  is  in 
the  past,  and  their  stern  integrity  too.  It  seems  impossible  that 
any  people  should  long  retain  simplicity  and  purity  of  character 
in  the  heart  of  Europe.  The  influence  of  the  corrupt  nations  is 
too  great,  especially  when  the  contact  is  so  frequent  as  now. 


FORMATION  OF  AVALANCHES.  81 


XV. 


AVALANCHES  AND  GLACIERS,  THEIR  FORMA- 
TION AND  MOVEMENT. 


Before  taking  leave  of  Switzerland,  it  may  be  interesting  to 
give  some  statistics  of  the  Alps,  though  they  are  always  after- 
thoughts with  the  traveller.  I  have  hitherto  endeavoured  to  give 
the  effect  of  the  scenery  one  meets  in  the  Alps  rather  than  detailed 
descriptions  of  it. 

Avalanches  are  regarded  by  many  as  immense  masses  of  snow 
of  a  somewhat  globular  form,  which  gather  as  they  roll  till  they 
acquire  the  size  of  a  miniature  mountain,  and  are  more  terrible 
to  see  even,  than  to  hear.  This  is  true  of  many  of  those  which 
fall  in  winter,  but  not  of  those  which  descend  in  spring  and  early 
summer.  The  Swiss  have  different  names  for  different  kinds  of 
avalanches.  There  is  the  Staublawinen,  or  dust  avalanche,  and 
Grundlawinen,  or  ground  avalanche.  The  former  is  the  falling 
of  loose  fresh-fallen  snow.  Gathering  into  huge  drifts  upon  some 
peak  till  it  is  detached  by  its  own  weight ;  it  slides  away  until  it 
reaches  a  precipice,  when  it  commences  rolling  and  thundering 
down  the  mountain.  Increasing  in  bulk  with  every  bound,  and  ex- 
tending farther  and  wider,  it  acquires  at  length  an  impetus  and 
strength  that  sweep  down  whole  forests,  in  its  passage,  as  if  the 
trees  were  slender  reeds ;  and  moves  across  the  entire  valley,  into 
which  it  lands.  This,  however,  is  not  the  most  dangerous  kind  of 
avalanche,  as  it  only  huries  people  and  cattle,  and  does  not  crush 
them  ;  so  that  they  can  frequently  be  dug  out  again  without  serious 
injury.  The  Grundlawinen,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  more  serious 
matter.  It  falls  in  the  springtime,  and  is  dislodged  by  the  action 
of  sun,  south  winds,  and  rain.    These  thawing  the  upper  surface, 

7 


DESCENT  OF  AVALANCHES. 


the  water  trickles  down  through  the  crevices,  increasing  their 
width  and  depth  till  huge  blocks,  indeed  immense  precipices,  are 
sawn  loose  by  this  slow  process ;  and  tipping  over  or  sliding  away, 
come  with  the  might  of  fate  itself  down  the  precipitous  sides  of 
the  mountain.  A  village  disappears  in  its  path  in  a  breath — trees 
three  feet  in  diameter  are  snapped  off  like  pipe  stems,  and  nothing 
but  a  wild  ruinous  waste  is  left  where  it  sweeps  in  its  wrath.  As 
I  mentioned  before,  these  avalanches  have  paths  they  travel  regu- 
larly as  deer.  This  is  indicated  by  the  shape  of  the  mountains, 
and  if  the  path  comes  straight  on  the  site  of  a  village,  the  inhabi- 
tants build  strong  parapets  of  mason  work,  against  which  the  ava- 
lanches may  thunder  and  accumulate.  These  prove  sometimes, 
however,  too  weak  for  the  falling  mass,  and  are  borne  away  in  its 
headlong  sweep,  adding  still  greater  ruin  and  terror  to  its  march. 
The  village  I  saw  crushed  in  the  pass  of  the  Tete  Noire  had  such 
a  wall  built  behind  its  church  to  protect  it.  For  a  long  time  it 
withstood  the  shock  of  the  avalanches  that  fell  against  it,  but  one 
night  there  came  one  too  strong  to  be  resisted,  and  bore  away  par- 
apet, church,  hamlet  and  all.  The  wind  caused  by  an  avalanche 
in  its  passage  is  sometimes  terrific.  A  blast  is  generated  by  the 
rapid  motion  of  the  headlong  mass,  like  that  created  by  a  cannon 
ball  in  its  descent,  which  extends  to  some  distance  both  sides  of  it, 
and  bears  down  trees  and  whirls  them  like  feathers  through 
the  atmosphere.  A  church  spire  was  once  blown  down  by  one 
that  fell  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off.  These  masses  of  ice  and  snow 
sometimes  fill  up  immense  gorges,  and  are  bored  through  by  the 
torrent,  forming  a  natural  bridge,  over  which  the  peasants  drive 
their  cattle  the  entire  summer.  The  Swiss  have  their  "  sacred 
groves,"  which  are  the  forests  that  are  left  standing  on  a  moun- 
tain side  above  a  hamlet  to  protect  it  from  avalanches. 

Those  which  fall  in  early  summer  are  attended  with  very  little 
danger,  as  they  usually  descend  in  abysses  where  no  traveller 
ever  goes.  They  are  seen  at  a  distance,  and  hence  have  none 
of  the  appearance  comnionly  supposed  to  belong  to  an  avalanche. 
You  hear  first  a  rumbling  sound,  which  soon  swells  to  a  full, 
though  distant  thunder  ;  tone  and  in  turning  your  eye  towards  the 
spot  whence  the  sound  proceeds,  you  see  something  which  appears 
like  a  small  white  rivulet  pouring  down  the  mountain  side,  now 


FORMATION  OF  GLACIERS.  83 

disappearing  in  some  ravine,  and  now  reappearing  on  the  edge  of 
some  cliff,  over  which  it  runs,  and  falls  with  headlong  speed  and 
increased  »roar,  till  it  finally  lands  in  some  deep  abyss.  You 
wonder  at  first  how  so  small  a  movement  can  create  so  deep  and 
startling  a  sound,  but  in  that  apparently  small  rivulet  are  rolling 
whole  precipices  of  ice,  with  a  rapidity  and  power  that  nothing 
could  resist.  Yet  these  terrible  visitants  become  as  familiar  to 
the  Swiss  as  our  own  rain-storms  to  us.  The  peasantry  wait  their 
regular  descent  in  the  spring  as  indications  that  winter  is  over. 
Those  which  are  loosened  by  the  human  voice  or  the  jingling  of 
bells  are  so  nicely  balanced  at  the  time,  that  it  requires  but  the 
slightest  change  or  shock  in  the  atmosphere  to  destroy  their 
equilibrium. 

Glaciers  are  the  everlasting  drapery  of  the  Alps,  clothing 
them  in  summer  and  winter  with  their  robes  of  ice.  They  are 
formed  by  the  successive  thawing  and  freezing  of  the  loose  snow 
in  spring  and  summer.  Melting  in  the  daytime  and  freezing  at 
night,  the  whole  mass  at  length  becomes  crystalized  ; — and  as  the 
lower  extremities  melt  in  summer,  they  gradually  move  down  the 
mountain,  carrying  with  them  debris  of  rocks  and  stone,  making 
a  perfect  geological  cabinet  of  the  hill  it  throws  up. 

Glaciers  begin  at  an  elevation  of  about  8000  feet  or  a  little 
less — above  this  are  eternal  snow  fields.  These  gletschers  or 
glaciers  constitute  one  of  the  most  striking  features  of  Alpine 
scenery.  Whether  looked  upon  with  the  eye  of  a  geologist,  and 
the  slow  and  mighty  process  of  renovation  and  destruction,  con- 
templated, working  on  from  the  birth  to  the  death  of  Time ;  or 
whether  regarded  with  the  eye  of  a  landscape  painter,  as  they 
now  clasp  the  breast  of  a  bold  peak  in  their  shining  embrace,  and 
now  stretch  their  icy  arms  far  away  into  the  mountains,  and 
now  plunge  their  glittering  foreheads  into  the  green  valley — 
they  are  the  same  objects  of  intense  interest,  and  ever  fresh 
wonder. 

As  they  push  down  the  declivities,  the  obstructions  they  meet 
with,  and  the  broken  surface  over  which  they  pass,  throw  them 
into  every  variety  of  shape.  Towers  are  suddenly  squeezed  up 
forty  or  fifty  feet  high,  and  precipices  thrown  out  which  topple  over 
with  the  roar  of  thunder.     Rocks  or  boulders  that  have  been  car- 


84  CREVICES. 


ried  away  from  their  resting-places  on  the  bosom  of  a  glacier 
protect  the  ice  under  them  by  their  shadow,  while  the  surrounding 
mass  gradually  melts  away,  leaving  them  standing  on  stately 
pedestals,  huge  block  obelisks  slowly  travelling  towards  the  val- 
ley.    Whenever  these  descending  masses  enter  a  gorge  up  in  the 
mountains,  they  spread  out  into  it,  partially  filling  it  up,  and  are 
called  ice  seas.     The  Mer  de  Glace  of  Chamouny  is  one  of  these. 
These  large  collections  of  ice  are  traversed  by  immense  crevices, 
reaching  hundreds  of  feet  down,  and  revealing  that  beautiful 
ultra-marine  colour  which  the  Rhone  has  as  it  leaves  Lake  Gene- 
va.    Through  these  fissures,  streams  flow  in  every  direction,  and 
collecting  at  the  lower  extremity  of  the  glacier,  under  the  roof  of 
a  huge  cavern  of  their  own  making,  flow  off*,  a  turbid  torrent,  into 
the  valley.     Into  these  crevices  the  snow  frequently  drifts,  cho- 
king up  the  portion  near  the  surface,  thus  making  concealed  pit- 
falls for  the  traveller,  and  sometimes  even  for  the  wary,  bold 
chamois  hunter.     Above  the  glaciers,  near  the  summit,  one  fre- 
quently meets  with  red  snow.     I  have  seen  it  myself,  and  noticed 
it  when  I  was  not  looking  for  it.     The  colour  is  said  to  be  pro- 
duced by  a  species  of  fungus  called  "  Palmella  Nivalis  or  Proto- 
cocus,"  which  makes  the  snow  itself  its  soil,  and  germinates  and 
grows  in  imperceptible  branches  over  the  surface.     The  invisible 
threads  reaching  out  in  every  direction  give  to  the  snow  a  deep 
crimson  blush,  which,  as  the  plant  dies,  changes  into  a  dirty 
black.     The  number  of  glaciers  in  the  Alps  has  been  put  by  Ebel 
at  four  hundred,  covering  a  surface  of  about  three  hundred  and 
fifty  square  miles.     But  he  might  as  well  attempt  to  estimate  the 
number  and  weight  of  all  the  avalanches  that  fall,  for  these  gla- 
ciers are  of  all  sizes,  from  a  few  rods  to  miles,  and  in  every 
variety  of  shape  and  position.     The  one  around  the   Finster- 
Aar-horn    contains  a  hundred  and  twenty  square  miles.     The 
traveller   sees,    as   at    Grindelwald    and    Chamouni,    only    the 
branches,  the  mere  arms  of  these  mighty  forms.     Scientific  men 
differ  very  much  as  to  the  relative  thickness  of  glaciers,  though 
they  average  probably  not 'more  than  seventy  or  eighty  feet. 
The  Mer  de  Glace,  where  it  pitches  into  the  vale  of  Chamouni,  is 
a  hundred  and  eighty  feet  thick.     Some  of  these  glaciers  are  of  a 
pure  white,  and  shine  in  the  noonday  sun  with  dazzling  splendour, 


SOUNDS  IN    THE  ALPS. 


but  the  greater  part  of  them  are  covered  with  the  debris  of  the 
mountains,  giving  them  a  dirty  hue,  wholly  unlike  the  appearance 
one  imagines  they  present,  who  has  never  seen  them.  The  im- 
pression they  make  on  the  mind  of  the  beholder,  however,  can 
never  be  effaced.  The  marks  of  power,  of  terrific  struggles  they 
carry  about  them,  fill  the  mind  with  emotions  of  grandeur  almost 
equal  to  the  solitary  avalanche  and  its  lonely  voice  of  thunder. 
They  have  a  voice  of  their  own,  too,  called  by  the  mountaineers 
Irullen  (growlings),  caused  by  the  rending  of  the  solid  mass  when 
the  south-east  wind  breathes  upon  it.  The  lower  portion  of  the 
Alps  is  full  of  sound  and  motion :  even  after  you  leave  the  tinkling 
of  bells,  the  music  of  the  horn  and  the  bleating  of  goats,  there  is 
the  roar  of  the  torrent,  the  shock  of  the  avalanche,  and  the  grind- 
ing, crushing  sound  of  the  mighty  glacier.  But  when  you  ascend 
above  these,  all  is  still  and  silent  as  the  sepulchre.  Eternal  sab- 
bath reigns  around  the  peaks,  and  solitude  deeper  than  the  heart 
of  the  forest,  embraces  the  subdued  and  humbled  adventurer, 
while  the  sudden  flight  of  a  pheasant  from  amid  the  snow,  or  the 
slow  and  lordly  sweep  of  the  Lamergeyer,  in  his  circles  upward, 
startle  the  feelings  into  greater  intensity. 


AN   ALPINE   EMIGRANT. 


XVL 

PASTURAGES,  CHALETS,  AND  ALPINE  PASSES. 


In  passing  through  the  higher  Alps  nothing  has  afTorded  me 
more  pleasure  than  the  green  pasturages  which,  here  and  there, 
dot  the  savage  landscape.  Sometimes  they  have  burst  unexpect- 
edly on  me,  as  the  fierce  Alpine  storm-cloud  rent  above  them,  re- 
vealing for  a  moment  a  face  of  gentleness  and  beauty,  and  then 
veiling  it  again  in  impenetrable  gloom ;  and  now  greeting  me 
from  the  precipitous  side  of  some  difficult  pass  ;  yet  always  awa- 
kening the  same  emotions.  The  bold  features  of  Alpine  scenery 
and  the  strong  contrasts  presented  by  the  quiet  meadow  spot 
and  the  cold  white  glaciers  that  lay  their  icy  hands  on  its  green 
bosom — the  secure  little  hamlet,  surrounded  by  the  most  savage  and 
awful  forms  of  nature — must  make  an  ineffaceable  impression  on 
the  heart  of  a  Swiss  mountaineer,  and  prevent,  I  should  think,  his 
ever  being  an.  emigrant.  I  am  inclined  to  believe  very  few  in 
proportion  to  the  whole  population  ever  do  leave  the  region  of  the 
Alps.  I  remember  finding  a  returned  emigrant  on  the  summit 
of  the  Righi.  He  had  trinkets  of  various  kinds  to  sell,  made  of 
wood  and  chamois  horn,  dec.  I  do  not  know  how  it  happened,  but 
I  accidentally  learned  that  he  had  once  been  to  America,  and  was 
curious  to  learn  what  had  brought  him  back.  He  liked  the  new 
country,  he  said,  very  well,  but  he  liked  the  Alps  better.  "Oh," 
said  he,  "  you  have  no  Alps  in  America !"  He  could  not  forget 
the  mountains  and  glaciers  and  pasturage  of  his  native  land,  and 
I  could  not  blame  him.  And  yet  the  poetry  of  a  Swiss  mountain- 
eer's life  is  all  in  appearance  and  none  in  reality.  So  with  the 
chalets  and  pasturages ; — they  are  picturesque  things  in  the  land- 


DESCRIPTION   OF  THE  CHALET.  87 

scape,  and  there  their  beauty  ends.  The  life  of  a  Swiss  herds- 
man is  any  thing  but  one  of  sentiment.  The  sound  of  his  horn 
at  sunrise,  ringing  through  the  sweet  valley  as  he  drives  his  flocks 
to  pasture ;  and  the  song  of  the  "  Ranz  des  vaches^^  as  the  herds 
slowly  wind  along  the  mountain  paths,  are  delightful  to  the  ear. 
So  is  the  tinkling  of  countless  bells  at  evening,  one  of  the  pleasant- 
est  sounds  that  was  wont  to  greet  me  in  my  wanderings  in  the 
Alps.  But  the  herdsman  thinks  of  none  of  these  things.  To 
gather  together  nearly  a  hundred  cows  twice  a  day,  and  milk 
them,  and  make  the  butter  and  cheese,  and  do  all  the  outdoor 
work  belonging  to  such  a  dairy,  make  his  life  one  of  constant  toil. 
The  chalet  too,  which  is  simply  a  Western  log  hut,  built  in  exact- 
ly the  same  style,  and  loaded  down  with  stone  on  the  roof  to  keep 
it  from  being  blown  away  by  the  Alpine  blast, — though  adding 
much  to  the  scenery,  is  any  thing  but  a  comfortable  home.  A 
table  and  bench  constitute  the  furniture — some  loose  straw  above, 
the  bed,  while  through  the  crevices  on  every  side  the  wind  and 
rain  enter  at  their  leisure.  To  complete  the  discomfort,  the  cattle 
are  allowed  to  tread  the  ground  around  it  into  a  barnykrd.  There 
are  exceptions  to  this  rul.e,  but  this  is  the  common  chalet  which 
meets  one  at  every  turn  on  a  Swiss  pasturage.  They  are  built 
with  no  reference  to  each  other,  but  are  scattered  around  on  the 
slopes  as  if  sieved  down  from  above,  and  alighted  where  they  did 
by  the  merest  chance.  The  number  that  will  be  scattered  around 
in  a  single  valley  is  almost  incredible.  As  I  descended  into  Grin- 
delwald  the  thick  sprinkling  of  these  little  low  dark-looking  cha- 
lets over  the  distant  slopes  produced  a  most  singular  effect.  Their 
number  seemed  literally  legion.  There  are  ten  thousand  in  the 
Simmenthal  alone. 

In  Switzerland  Alps  signifies  mountain  pasturage,  and  is  used 
in  that  sense.  These  Alps,  or  mountain  pasturages,  are  some- 
times private  property,  and  sometimes  the  property  of  the  village 
or  commune.  When  owned  by  the  latter,  every  inhabitant  is  al- 
lowed to  pasture  a  certain  number  of  cattle  for  so  many  days  upon 
it.  I  saw,  near  Grindelwald,  one  of  these  government  pasturages, 
and  it  was  literally  covered  with  cows.  The  valley  furnishes  the 
first  pasture  in  the  spring,  and  as  the  summer  advances,  and  the 
higher  pasturages  become  free  of  snow,  the  herds  are  driven  up  to 


MODE  OF  PASTURING  CATTLE. 


them.  Owners  of  a  large  number  of  cattle  will  have  a  chalet  on 
every  pasturage  for  their  cowherd. 

In  speaking  of  the  customs  of  the  Swiss  in  this  respect,  Latrobe 
says :  "  They  stay  on  the  first  pasturages  till  about  the  10th  or 
12th  of  June,  when  the  cattle  are  driven  to  the  middle  range  of 
pasturages.  That  portion  of  the  herd  intended  for  a  summer 
campaign  on  the  highest  Alps  remain  here  till  the  beginning  of 
July,  and,  on  the  fourth  of  that  month,  generally  ascend  to  them  j 
return  to  the  middle  range  of  pastures  about  seven  or  eight  weeks 
afterwards,  spend  there  about  fourteen  days,  or  three  weeks,  to 
eat  the  after  grass ;  and  finally  return  into  the  valleys  about  the 
10th  or  11th  of  October,  where  they  remain,  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
villages,  till  driven  by  the  snow  and  tempests  of  winter  into  the 
stables. 

"  That  portion  of  the  cattle,  on  the  other  hand,  which  is  not 
destined  to  pass  the  summer  on  the  higher  Alps,  and  are  necessary 
for  the  supply  of  the  village  with  milk  and  butter,  descend  from 
the  middVe  pastures,  on  the  fourth  of  July,  into  the  valley,  and 
consume  tnfe  grass  upon  the  pasturage  belonging  to  the  commune, 
till  the  winter  drives  them  under  shelter.  The  very  highest  Al- 
pine pasturages  are  never  occupied  more  than  three  or  four 
weeks." 

I  have  already,  in  another  place,  spoken  of  the  custom  of  dri- 
ving herds  to  the  most  inaccessible  pasturages  in  midsummer. 
Herds  are  thus  driven  across  the  Mer  de  Glace,  in  July,  to  the 
pasturages  beyond,  though  more  or  less  cattle  are  lost  in  the 
crevices  of  the  glaciers  at  every  passage. 

Murray  says  that  the  best  cheese  is  made  "  upon  pastures  3000 
feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  in  the  vales  of  Simmen,  and  Saa- 
nen,  and  Emmenthal.  The  best  cows  there  yield,  in  summer, 
between  twenty  and  forty  pounds  of  milk  daily,  and  each  cow 
produces,  by  the  end  of  the  season  of  four  months,  on  an  average, 
two  hundred  weight  of  cheese."  I  have  seen  herds  feeding  six 
and  seven  thousand  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea. 

I  ought  to  add,  perhaps,  in  justice  to  the  Swiss,  that  some  of  the 
chalets  I  spoke  of  as  exceptions  to  those  I  described  as  being 
both  uncomfortable  and  dirty,  are  as  neat  and  tidy  as  a  New 
England  farm-house.     The  white  table-cloth  and  clean  though 


NUMBER  OF  ALPINE  PASSES.  89 

rude  furniture,  and  fresh  butter  and  milk,  and  pleasant  face  of 
the  hospitable  mistress,  make  the  traveller's  heart  leap  within  him, 
as,  weary  and  cold,  he  crosses  the  threshold. 

I  have  spoken  of  several  of  the  Alpine  passes  in  detail,  and  re- 
fer to  them  now  merely  to  state  that  there  are  fifty  in  Switzerland 
alone.  Those  roads  constructed  for  carriages  are  not  allowed  to 
rise  more  than  a  certain  number  of  feet  to  a  mile.  Distance 
seems  not  to  have  entered  into  the  calculations  of  the  engineers 
who  built  those  monuments  of  human  skill — carriage  roads  over 
the  Alps.  They  were  after  a  certain  grade,  and  they  obtained  it, 
though  by  contortions  and  serpentine  windings  that  seem  almost 
endless.  Thus  the  Simplon  averages  nowhere  more  than  one 
inch  elevation  to  a  foot,  and,  indeed,  not  quite  that.  Thirty  thou- 
sand men  were  employed  on  this  road  six  years.  There  are  611 
bridges  in  less  than  forty  miles,  ten  galleries,  and  twenty  houses 
of  refuge,  while  the  average  width  of  the  road  is  over  twenty-five 
feet.  The  cost  of  the  whole  was  about  #1,200,000.  The  Splu- 
gen  presents  almost  as  striking  features  as  the  Simplon.  From 
these  facts  some  idea  may  be  gathered  of  the  stupendous  work  it 
must  be  to  carry  a  carriage  road  over  the  Alps. 

In  the  winter  they  are  all  blocked  up,  and  none  but  the  bold 
foot  traveller  ventures  on  their  track.  The  driving  snow-storms 
and  falling  avalanches  render  them  impassable  to  carriages,  and 
perilous  even  to  the  accustomed  mountaineer.  I  believe  that  the 
mail  is  carried  over  the  Simplon,  during  the  winter,  by  a  man 
either  on  foot  or  with  a  mule.  I  think  I  have  been  told  that  he 
makes  the  passage  twice  a  week,  bringing  to  the  hospice  on  the 
top  the  only  news  that  reach  it  of  the  world  below.  For  eight 
months  in  the  year  the  inhabitants  of  the  higher  Alps  might  as 
well  be  out  of  the  world,  for  all  knowledge  they  have  of  its  doings 
and  ways. 


90  LAST  VIEW  OF  THE  ALPS. 


XVII. 
A  FAREWELL  TO  SWITZERLAND-BASLE. 


The  first  view  one  gets  of  the  Rhine  in  leaving  Switzerland 
from  the  east  is  on  his  way  from  Zurich  to  Basle.  Here,  also, 
he  takes  his  farewell  look  of  the  Alps.  From  the  top  of  the 
Botzberg  the  whole  range  of  the  Bernese  Alps  rises  on  the  view. 
Amid  the  scenes  in  which  he  has  moved  since  he  left  their  pres- 
ence, the  traveller  almost  forgot  their  existence,  and  as  they  here 
rise  again  on  his  vision,  they  bring  back  a  world  of  associations 
on  his  heart.  There  they  stand  leaning  against  the  distant  sky, 
like  the  forms  of  friends  he  has  left  forever.  Such  were  my  feel- 
ings as  I  sat  down  by  the  road-side,  under  as  bright  a  sky  as  ever 
bent  over  the  vineyards  of  Italy,  and  looked  off  upon  those  bold 
peaks  which  had  become  to  me  objects  of  affection.  A  few  days 
only  had  clasped  since  I  was  amid  their  terror  and  their  beauty. 
I  had  seen  the  moonbeams  glancing  on  their  glaciers  at  midnight, 
and  heard  the  music  of  their  torrents  lifting  up  their  voices  from 
the  awful  abysses.  I  had  seen  the  avalanche  bound  from  their 
precipices,  and  rush,  smoking  and  thundering,  into  the  gulfs  below 
— and  been  wrapt  in  their  storms  and  clouds.  I  had  toiled  and 
struggled  through  their  snow  drifts  and  stood  enraptured  on  their 
green  pasturages,  while  the  music  of  bells,  the  bleating  of  flocks, 
and  the  clear  tones  of  the  Alp-horn  made  it  seem  like  a  dream- 
land to  me.  A  mere  dwarf  in  comparison,  I  had  moved  and 
mused  amid  those  terrific  forms.  Now  mellowed  and  subdued  by 
distance,  the  vast,  white,  irregular  mass,  lay  like  a  monster  dream- 
ing in  the  blue  mist.  Clouds  resting  below  the  summit  slept  here 
and  there  along  the  range,  and  all  was  silent  and  beautiful.  I 
love  nature  always,  but  especially  in  these  her  grander  and  no- 


A  LEGEND.  91 


bier  aspects.  The  Alps  had  lain  along  the  horizon  of  my  imag- 
ination from  childhood  up.  The  desire  of  years  had  at  length 
been  fulfilled,  and  I  had  wandered  amid  the  avalanches  and  gla- 
ciers and  snow-fields  and  cottages  of  the  Oberland,  and  now  I  was 
taking  my  last  look.  •  It  was  with  feelings  of  profound  melancholy 
I  turned  away  from  St.  Peters  and  the  Duomo  of  Milan,  feeling 
I  should  see  their  magnificent  proportions  no  more.  But  it  was 
with  still  sadder  feelings  I  gazed  my  farewell  on  the  glorious 
Alps. 

On  this  route,  within  half  a  mile  of  Brugg,  is  a  lunatic  asylum, 
once  the  Abbey  of  Koenigsfelden,  (King's  field,)  which  the  guide 
book  informs  you  was  founded  in  1310,  by  Empress  Elizabeth, 
and  Agnes,  Queen  of  Hungary,  on  the  spot  where  the  Emperor 
Albert,  the  husband  of  the  former  and  father  of  the  latter,  was  as- 
sassinated. Leaving  his  suite  on  the  opposite  bank,  he  had  cross- 
ed the  river  Reuss  at  this  point,  with  only  the  four  conspirators 
accompanying  him.  The  principal  one,  John  of  Swabia,  was 
the  nephew  of  Albert,  and  was  incited  to  this  deed  from  being 
kept  out  of  his  paternal  inheritance  by  his  uncle.  He  struck 
first,  and  sent  his  lance  through  the  Emperor's  throat.  Bolm  then 
pierced  him  through  and  through  with  his  sword,  while  Walter 
von  Eschenbach  cleaved  his  skull  in  twain  with  a  felling  stroke. 
Wart,  the  fourth  conspirator,  took  no  part  in  the  murder,  and  yet, 
by  a  singular  providence,  was  the  only  one  that  was  ever  caught 
and  executed  for  the  deed.  The  others  escaped,  although  the 
King's  attendants  were  in  sight.  Indeed  the  latter  was  so  alarm- 
ed they  took  to  flight,  leaving  their  master  to  die  alone,  sustained 
and  cheered  only  by  a  poor  peasant  girl,  who  held  the  royal  dy- 
ing head  upon  her  bosom. 

"  Alone  she  sate :  from  hill  and  wood  low  sunk  the  mournful  sun ; 
Fast  gushed  the  fount  of  noble  blood  ;  treason  its  worst  had  done. 
With  her  long  hair  she  vainly  pressed  the  wounds  to  staunch  their  tide  : 
Unknown,  on  that  meek  humble  breast  imperial  Albert  died." 

On  the  friends  and  families  of  these  murderers  the  children  of 
Albert  wreaked  a  most  bloody  vengeance.  The  remotest  relative 
was  hunted  down  and  slain,  and  every  friend  offered  up  as  a  vic- 
tim to  revenge,  till  one  thousand  is  supposed  to  have  fallen.   Queen 


92  SABBATH  IN   BASLE. 

Agnes  was  accustomed  to  witness  the  executions,  and  seemed  ac- 
tuated by  the  spirit  of  a  fiend  while  the  horrid  butchery  was  go- 
ing on.  On  one  occasion  she  saw  sixty-three,  one  after  another 
slain,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  bloody  spectacle  exclaimed,  "  Now 
I  hathe  in  May-dew.^^  This  convent  of  Koenigsfelden  was  en- 
dowed with  the  confiscated  property  of  these  murdered  men,  and 
here  she  ended  her  days.  But  her  religious  seclusion,  prayers 
and  almsgiving  were  powerless  to  wipe  the  blood  from  her  con- 
science. The  ghosts  of  her  murdered  and  innocent  victims  rose 
up  before  her  guilty  spirit,  and  frightened  peace  from  her  bosom. 
Revenge  had  been  gratified,  but  she  forgot  that  after  it  has  been 
glutted  with  victims,  it  always  turns  round  and  gnaws  at  the  heart 
which  gave  it  birth.  When  she  came  to  die,  and  the  vision  of 
that  terrible  and  just  tribunal  that  awaited  her  passed  before  her 
trembling  spirit,  she  sent  for  a  priest  to  give  her  absolution. 
"  Woman,"  he  replied,  "  God  is  not  to  be  served  with  bloody 
hands,  nor  by  the  slaughter  of  innocent  persons,  nor  by  convents 
built  with  the  plunder  of  widows  and  orphans, — but  by  mercy 
and  forgiveness  of  injuries."  Switzerland  is  full  of  these  wild 
tales.  They  meet  you  at  every  turn  ;  and  you  often  start  to  be 
told  you  are  standing  on  the  grave  of  a  murderer. 

Basle  is  the  last  town  in  Switzerland  standing  on  the  Rhine  at 
the  head  of  navigation.  It  contains  a  little  over  21,000  inhabi- 
tants, and  is  well  worth  a  longer  stay  than  the  thousands  of  trav- 
ellers who  yearly  pass  through  it  ever  give  it.  It  was  once  one 
of  the  strictest  of  the  Swiss  cities  in  its  sumptuary  laws.  Every 
person  on  the  Sabbath,  who  went  to  church,  was  compelled  to 
dress  in  black ;  no  carriage  could  enter  the  town  after  ten  at 
night,  and  the  luxury  of  a  footman  was  forbidden.  A  set  of  of- 
ficers called  Unzichterherrn  decided  the  number  of  dishes  and  the 
wines  to  be  used  at  a  dinner  party,  and  also  the  cut  and  quality 
of  all  the  clothes  worn.  Until  fifty  years  ago,  the  time-pieces  of 
this  town  were  an  hour  in  advance  of  all  others  in  Europe.  Tra- 
dition states  that  this  curious  custom  had  its  origin  in  the  deliver- 
ance of  the  place  once  from  a  band  of  conspirators  by  the  town 
clock  striking  one  instead  of  twelve.  But  the  Swiss  have  a  tra- 
dition to  establish  every  custom.  There  is  a  curious  head  attach- 
ed to  the  clock  tower  standing  on  the  bridge  which  connects  the 


METHODISM  IN   BASLE.  93 

two  towns.  The  movement  of  the  pendulum  causes  a  long  tongue 
to  protrude,  and  the  eyes  to  roll  about — "  making  faces,"  it  is  said, 
"  at  Little  Basle  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river." 

Since  the  Reformation  Basle  has  been  the  principal  seat  of 
Methodism  in  Switzerland.  Formerly  the  citizens  exhibited  their 
piety  in  odd  mottoes  and  doggrels  placed  over  their  doors  in  the 
public  streets.  These,  of  course,  no  longer  remain,  and  the  peo- 
ple are  any  thing  but  religious.  Two  of  these  strange  mottoes 
we  give  from  the  guide  book  as  a  specimen  of  the  pious  Methodists 
of  that  time : 

"  Auf  Gott  ich  meine  Hoffnung  bau 
Und  wohne  in  der  Alien  Sau."  w 

In  God  my  hope  of  grace  I  big, 
And  dwell  within  the  Ancient  Pig. 

"  Wacht  auf  ihr  Menschen  und  that  Buss 
Ich  heiss  zum  goldenen  Rinderfuss." 
Wake  and  repent  your  sins  with  grief, 
I'm  called  the  golden  Shin  of  Beef. 

This  was  a  queer  mode  of  publishing  to  the  traveller  one's  relig- 
ious opinions,  but  it  shows  to  what  ridiculous  extremes  fanaticism 
will  carry  a  man.  To  the  credit  of  the  place  I  will  say,  however, 
that  even  now  a  carriage  arriving  at  the  gates  of  the  town  during 
church  time  on  the  Sabbath  is  compelled  to  wait  there  till  service 
is  over. 

Here  one  begins  to  think  of  the  Rhine,  "the  glorious  Rhine." 
It  goes  rushing  and  foaming  through  Basle  as  if  in  haste  to  reach 
the  vine-clad  shores  of  Germany.  The  traveller,  as  he  sees  its 
waters  darting  onward,  imbibes  a  portion  of  their  anxiety,  and  is 
in  haste  to  be  borne  along  on  their  bosom  to  the  shore  below,  so 
rich  in  associations  and  so  marked  in  the  history  of  man. 


94  SWISS  CROSS-BOWS. 


XVIII. 

STRASBOURG-THE  RHINE-FRANKFORT. 


One  is  constantly  shown  choice  relics  in  passing  through 
Switzerland,  as  well  as  in  passing  over  Italy.  Some,  doubtless, 
are  genuine,  but  which  are  so  is  the  trouble.  Thus,  at  Lucerne, 
in  the  public  archives,  I  was  shown  the  very  sword  William 
Tell  was  accustomed  to  swing  before  him  in  battle,  and  the  very 
cross-bow  from  which  he  hurled  the  bolt  into  the  tyrant's  bosom. 
Both,  however,  are  apocryphal.  I  forgot  to  mention,  by  the  way, 
that  these  old  Swiss  cross-bows  are  not  our  Indian  bows,  but  what 
school-boys  call  cross-guns.  The  bow,  frequently  made  of  steel, 
is  fastened  to  a  stock,  and  the  arrow  is  launched  along  a  groove. 
The  bows  of  many  of  these  are  so  stiff  that  it  was  with  difficulty 
I  could  make  them  spring  at  all  with  my  utmost  strength.  I 
might  as  well  have  pulled  on  a  bar  of  iron.  The  stiffest  of  them 
even  the  strong-limbed  mountaineer  could  not  span  with  his  un- 
aided strength,  and  was  compelled  to  have  cog  wheels  and  a  small 
crank  attached  to  the  stock,  by  winding  which  he  was  enabled  to 
spring  the  bow.  He  thus  accumulated  tremendous  force  on  the 
arrow,  and  when  it  was  dismissed  it  went  with  the  speed  and 
power  of  a  bullet.  At  Basle  there  is  a  large  collection  of  relics, 
made  by  a  private  gentleman,  who  has  sunk  his  fortune  in  it. 
Among  other  things  are  Bonaparte's  robe  worked  by  Josephine, 
in  which  he  was  crowned  at  Milan,  and  a  neat  rose- wood  dressing 
case  of  the  Empress,  containing  fifty  secret  drawers. 

But  not  to  stop  here,  we  will  away  down  the  Rhine.  The 
river  is  here  shallow  and  bad  to  navigate,  and  so  I  took  the  rail- 
road to  Strasbourg,  the  lofty  spire  of  whose  cathedral  rises  to 


STRASBOURG   CATHEDRAL.  95 

view  long  before  the  traveller  reaches  the  town.  This  cathedral 
or  minster  is  one  of  the  finest  Gothic  buildings  in  Europe,  and 
has  the  loftiest  spire  in  the  world,  it  being  four  hundred  and 
seventy-four  feet  above  the  pavement.  It  is  formed  of  stone  and 
yet  open  like  frost-work,  and  looks  from  below  like  a  delicate 
cast  iron  frame.  Yet  there  it  stands  and  has  stood,  with  the  wind 
whistling  through  its  open-work  for  centuries.  Begun  about  the 
time  of  the  Crusades  by  Erwin  of  Steinbach,  it  was  continued 
by  his  son,  and  afterwards  by  his  daughter,  and  after  that  by 
others,  and  was  finally  finished  424  years  after  its  foundation.  I 
am  not  going  to  describe  it  \  but  just  stand  outside,  by  the  west 
end,  and  cast  your  eye  over  the  noble  face  it  presents.  Over  the 
solid  part  of  the  wall  is  thrown  a  graceful  net- work  of  arcades  and 
pillars,  formed  of  stone,  yet  so  delicately  cut  that  it  seems  a  cast- 
ing fastened  on  the  surface.  In  the  centre  is  a  magnificent  cir- 
cular window,  like  a  huge  eye,  only  it  is  fifty  feet  across,  while 
the  body  of  the  building  itself  towers  away  230  feet  above  you, 
or  nearly  as  high  as  Trinity  church,  steeple  and  all,  will  be  when 
finished.  And  over  all  is  this  beautiful  netting  of  stone.  When 
Trinity  church  is  completed,  clap  another  just  like  it,  spire  and  all, 
on  the  top  of  its  spire,  and  you  have  some  conception  of  the  man- 
ner the  Strasbourg  Minster  lifts  its  head  into  the  heavens.  Among 
other  things  in  the  interior  is  the  famous  clock  which,  till  lately, 
has  for  a  long  time  remained  silent,  because  no  mechanist  could 
be  found  of  sufficient  skill  to  arrange  its  elaborate  interior.  It  is 
about  the  size  of  a  large  organ,  and  tells  not  only  the  time  of  the 
day,  but  the  changes  of  the  seasons — exhibits  the  different  phases 
of  the  moon — the  complicated  nnovements  of  the  planets,  bringing 
about  in  their  appointed  time  the  eclipses  of  the  sun  and  moon, 
besides  playing  several  tunes  and  performing  various  marches  by 
way  of  pastime.  It  is  a  time-keeper,  astronomer,  almanac, 
mathematician,  and  musician  at  the  same  time.  Every  hour  a 
procession  appears  on  its  face  marching  round  to  the  sound  of 
music,  with  some  striking  figure  in  the  foreground.  We  waited 
to  notice  one  performance,  and  the  chief  personage  that  came  out 
to  do  us  honour  was  old  Father  Time,  with  his  scythe  over  his 
shoulder,  and  his  head  bowed  down  in  grief,  looking  as  if  he  were 
striking  his  last  hour.     Here  lies  Oberlin,  and  about  a  mile  and 


96  PATE  DE   FOIES  GRAS. 

a  half  distant,  at  Waldbach,  is  his  house  and  library,  standing 
just  as  he  left  them. 

Here  for  the  first  time  I  noticed  the  storks  sitting  quietly  on 
their  nests  on  the  tops  of  the  lofty  chimnies,  or  stepping  with  their 
long  legs  and  outstretched  necks  around  on  their  perilous  prome- 
nade. There  is  one  street  in  this  town  called  Brand  Strasse  (Fire 
Street),  from  the  fact  that  in  1348  a  huge  bonfire  was  made  where 
it  runs,  to  burn  the  Hebrews,  and  2,000  were  consumed,  for  hav- 
ing, as  it  was  declared,  poisoned  the  wells  and  fountains  of  the 
town.  Ah !  almost  all  Europe  has  been  one  wide  Brand  Strasse 
to  this  unfortunate  people. 

Strasbourg  is  the  great  market  for  pates  defoies  gras,  made,  as 
it  is  known,  of  the  livers  of  geese.  These  poor  creatures  are  shut 
up  in  coops  so  narrow  they  cannot  turn  round  in  them,  and  then 
stuffed  twice  a  day  with  Indian  corn,  to  enlarge  their  livers,  wMch 
have  been  known  to  swell  till  they  reached  the  enormous  weight 
of  two  pounds  and  a  half.  Garlick  steeped  in  water  is  given  them 
to  increase  their  appetites.  This  invention  is  worthy  of  the  French 
nation,  where  cooks  are  great  as  nobles. 

From  this  place  to  Mayence,  down  the  Rhine,  there  is  nothing 
of  interest  except  the  old  city  of  Worms,  immortal  for  the  part  it 
played  in  the  Reformation.  It  is  now  half  desolate,  but  I  looked 
upon  it  with  the  profoundest  emotions.  Luther  rose  before  me 
with  that  determined  brow  and  strange,  awful  eye  of  his,  before 
which  the  boldest  glance  went  down.  I  seemed  to  behold  him  as 
he  approached  the  thronged  city.  Every  step  tells  on  the  fate  of 
a  world,  and  on  the  single  will  of  that  single  man  rests  the  whole 
Reformation.  But  he  is  firm  as  truth  itself,  and  in  the  regular 
beatings  of  that  mighty  heart,  and  the  unfaltering  step  of  that  fear- 
less form,  the  nations  read  their  destiny.  The  Rhine  is  lined  with 
battle  fields,  and  mighty  chieftains  lie  along  its  banks ;  but  there 
never  was  the  march  of  an  army  on  its  shores,  not  even  when 
Bonaparte  trod  there  with  his  strong  legions,  so  sublime  and  awful 
as  the  approach  of  that  single  man  to  Worms.  The  fate  of  a  na- 
tion hung  on  the  tread  of  one — that  of  the  world  on  the  other. 
Crowns  and  thrones  were  carried  by  the  former — the  freedom  of 
mankind  by  the  latter.  What  is  the  headlong  valour  of  Bonaparte 
on  the  bridge  of  Lodi,  the  terrible  charge  of  McDonald  at  Wag- 


LUTHER.  97 


ram,  or  Ney  at  Waterloo,  compared  to  the  steady  courage  of  this 
fearless  man,  placing  himself  single-handed  against  kings  and 
princes,  and  facing  down  the  whole  visible  church  of  God  on 
earth,  with  its  prisons  and  torture  and  death  placed  before  him. 
But  there  was  a  mightier  power  at  work  within  him  than  human 
will  or  human  courage — the  upstaying  and  uplifting  spirit  of  God 
bearing  on  the  heart  with  its  sweet  promise,  and  nerving  it  with 
its  divine  strength,  till  it  could  throb  as  calmly  in  the  earthquake 
as  in  the  sunshine.  Still  his  was  a  bold  spirit,  daring  all  and 
more  than  man  dare  do. 

The  Rhine  here  is  a  miserable  stream  enough,  flowing  amid 
low  marshy  islands,  and  over  a  flat  country,  so  that  you  seem  to 
be  moving  through  a  swamp  rather  than  down  the  most  beautiful 
river  of  Europe.  The  boat  will  now  be  entangled  in  a  perfect 
crowd  of  these  mud  islands  till  there  seems  no  way  of  escape,  and 
now,  caught  in  a  current,  go  dashing  straight  on  to  another ;  and 
just  when  the  crash  is  expected,  and  you  are  so  near  you  could 
easily  leap  ashore,  it  shoots  away  like  an  arrow,  and  floats  on  the 
broad  lake-like  bosom  of  the  stream.  Nothing  can  be  more  stupid 
than  the  descent  of  the  Rhine  to  Mayence. 

Here  I  crossed  the  river  and  took  cars  for  Frankfort-on-the- 
Maine.  Here,  also,  I  first  noticed  those  huge  rafts  of  timber 
which  are  brought  from  the  mountains  of  Germany  and  floated 
down  to  Holland.  One  was  moving  down  towards  the  bridge, 
four  hundred  feet  long,  and  nearly  three  hundred  wide,  sprin- 
kled over  with  the  cabins  of  the  navigators,  who,  with  their  fam- 
ilies,  amounted  to  between  two  and  three  hundred  persons.  I 
supposed  the  spectacle  of  such  immense  masses  of  floating  timber 
was  one  of  the  peculiar  features  of  our  western  world,  and  I  did 
not  expect  such  a  wild  and  frontier  scene  here  on  the  Rhine.^ 

There  are  three  classes  of  cars  on  the  railroad  to  Frankfort. 
The  first  is  fitted  up  for  the  delicate  tastes  of  noble  blood,  though 
free  to  all.  The  second  is  better  than  any  railroad  carriage  I 
ever  saw  at  home,  and  the  third  very  passable.  Taking  the  sec- 
ond as  more  becoming  my  rank,  I  sped  ofl*  for  Frankfort.  Of 
this  free  town  I  will  say  only  that  the  belt  of  shrubbery  and  flow- 
ers  going  entirely  round  it,  with  carriage  drives  and  promenades 
between,  looks  like  a  beautiful  wreath  encircling  it,  and  occupy- 

8 


98  MOTHER  OF  THE  ROTHSCHILDS. 

2 

ing  as  it  does  the  place  of  the  old  line  of  forts,  is  a  sweet  emblem 
of  the. change  that  is  yet  to  come  over  the  cities  of  the  world  from 
the  peaceful  influence  of  the  gospel.  The  two  things  that  inter- 
ested us  most  were,  the  house  in  which  Goethe  was  born,  showing 
by  its  fine  exterior  that  poverty  was  not  the  inheritance  of  one 
poet  at  least, — and  the  Jews'  street,  at  one  end  of  which  stands 
the  palace  of  the  Rothschilds.  The  Jews  here,  as  every  where, 
-are  old  clothes  men,  and  the  street  is  black  with  garments  hang- 
ing before  the  dwellings  to  tempt  the  purchaser.  The  Rothschilds 
.have  built  their  palace  at  the  end  of  the  street,  hut  facing  one  of 
ithe  most  fashionable  streets  of  the  town.  Thus  they  stand  with 
one  foot  among  the  Jews  and  the  other  among  Christians.  I  was 
struck  with  one  little  incident  illustrating  the  tenacity  with  which 
a  Hebrew  clings  to  his  despised  people.  The  mother  of  the 
Rothschilds  still  lives  among  the  old  clothes  in  the  midst  of  her 
kindred,  and  steadily  refuses  to  dwell  with  her  children  in  their 
magnificent  palace.  Like  Ruth  she  says  to  her  people,  "  Where 
thou  goest  I  will  go,  and  thy  God  shall  be  my  God."  I  love  this 
strong  affection  for  her  persecuted  race,  choosing,  as  it  does, 
shame  and  disgrace  with  them,  rather  than  honour  and  riches  with 
the  world.  Even  here,  in  this  enlightened  town,  until  eleven 
years  ago,  there  was  an  edict  in  force  restricting  the  number  of 
marriages  among  the  Hebrews  to  thirteen  per  year. 


MINERAL  SPRINGS  OF  WEISBADEN.  99 


XIX. 

A  DAY  IN  WIESBADEN 


Wiesbaden  is  the  Saratoga  of  Germany  and  the  chief  town  in 
the  Duchy  of  Nassau.  The  Duke  is  the  King  of  this  little  prov- 
ince containing  355,715  inhabitants,  of  whom  a  little  over  half 
are  Protestants,  5,845  Jews,  and  the  rest  Catholics.  This  small 
duchy  is  filled  with  Brunnens,  or  bubbling  springs ;  but  before  I 
give  a  description  of  them,  let  me  sketch  a  day  in  Wiesbaden. 
At  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the  servant,  in  obedience  to  my 
orders,  knocked  at  my  door,  and  with  a  bright  sun  just  rising  over 
the  Taunus  mountains  to  greet  me,  I  threaded  my  way  to  the  hot 
springs,  a  short  distance  from  the  centre  of  the  village.  A  crowd 
had  arrived  before  me,  and  were  scattered  around  over  the  open 
area  or  passing  up  and  down  the  promenades,  carrying  a  glass  of 
the  steaming  water  in  their  hands,  waving  it  backwards  and  for- 
wards in  the  morning  air,  and  blowing  upon  the  surface  to  cool  it 
for  drinking.  This  water  is  so  hot  it  cannot  be  drank  for  some 
time  after  it  is  dipped  up,  and  the  vessel  containing  it  cannot  be 
grasped  for  a  single  moment  in  the  hand.  A  handle,  therefore,  is 
attached  to  all  the  vessels,  in  which  each  invalid  receives  his  por- 
tion of  the  scalding  fluid.  I  stood  for  a  long  time  convulsed  with 
laughter  at  the  scene  that  opened  before  me  as  I  approached  this 
spring,  notwithstanding  the  sobering  effects  of  the  early  morning 
air.  Now  an  old  man  tottered  away  from  the  steaming  spring, 
bowing  over  his  glass,  which  he  held  with  trembling  hand  close 
to  his  face,  and  blowing  with  the  most  imperturbable  gravity  and 
dolorous  countenance  on  the  scalding  fluid.  Close  behind  him 
shot  along  a  peppery  Frenchman,  puffing  away  at  his  drink,  and 
swinging  it  backwards  and  forwards  with  such  velocity  and  abrupt- 


100  MANNER  OF  DRINKING  THE  WATER. 

ness,  that  a  portion  of  the  hot  water  at  length  spilled  over  on  his 
hand,  when  he  dropped  the  vessel  as  if  he  had  been  bitten  by  a 
snake,  and,  with  a  dozen  sacres,  stood  scowling  over  the  broken 
fragments  that  lay  scattered  at  his  feet.  Old  and  young  women 
were  walking  along  the  promenades  utterly  absorbed  in  their  cup 
of  boiling  water,  which  it  required  the  nicest  balancing  to  keep 
from  spilling  over.  This  intense  attention  of  so  many  people  to 
the  single  object  of  keeping  their  cups  right  end  up,  and  yet  swing 
them  as  far  and  rapid  as  possible  in  order  to  cool  the  water,  was 
irresistibly  comical.  Almost  every  man's  character  could  be  dis- 
cerned in  the  way  he  carried  his  cup,  and  the  success  which  at- 
tended his  operations.  Your  quiet  lazy  man  sat  down  on  a  bench, 
put  his  vessel  beside  him,  and  crossing  his  legs,  waited  with  the 
most  composed  mien  the  sure  operation  of  the  laws  of  nature  to 
cool  his  dose,  while  the  ardent  impatient  personage  kept  shaking 
and  blowing  his  tumbler,  and  sipping  every  now  and  then,  to  the 
no  slight  burning  of  his  lips. 

After  having  watched  for  a  while  this  to  me  novel  spectacle,  I 
stepped  up  to  the  spring  and  received  from  a  young  girl  my  por- 
tion of  this  boiling  broth,  and  commenced  my  promenade,  present- 
ing, probably,  to  some  other  traveller,  as  ridiculous  a  figure  as 
those  who  had  just  excited  my  mirth  had  to  me. 

The  taste  of  this  water,  when  partially  cooled,  is  precisely  like 
chicken  broth.  Says  a  humorous  English  traveller,  of  this  spring, 
(Sir  Francis  Head,)  "  If  I  were  to  say  that,  while  drinking  it,  one 
hears  in  one's  ears  the  cackling  of  hens,  and  that  one  sees  feath- 
ers flying  before  one's  eyes,  I  should  certainly  greatly  exaggerate  ; 
but  when  I  declare  that  it  exactly  resembles  very  hot  chicken 
broth,  I  only  say  what  Dr.  Grenville  said,  and  what,  in  fact,  every 
body  says,  and  must  say,  respecting  it,  and  certainly  I  do  wonder 
why  the  common  people  should  be  at  the  inconvenience  of  making 
bad  soup,  when  they  can  get  much  better  from  nature's  great 
stock-pot,  the  Kochbrunnen  of  Wiesbaden.  At  all  periods  of  the 
year,  summer  and  winter,  the  temperature  of  this  broth  remains 
the  same ;  and  when  one  reflects  that  it  has  been  bubbling  out  of 
the  ground,  and  boiling  over,  in  the  very  same  state,  certainly 
from  the  time  of  the  Romans,  and  probably  from  the  time  of  the 
flood,  it  is  really  astonishing  what  a  most  wonderful  apparatus 


THE  KUR  SAAL.  101 


there  must  exist  below,  what  an  inexhaustible  stock  of  provisions 
to  ensure  such  an  everlasting  supply  of  broth  always  formed  of 
the  same  eight  or  ten  ingredients,  always  salted  to  exactly  the 
same  degree,  and  always  served  up  at  exactly  the  same  heat. 
One  would  think  that  some  of  the  particles  in  the  recipe  would 
be  exhausted  :  in  short,  to  speak  metaphorically,  that  the  chickens 
would  at  last  be  boiled  to  rags,  or  that  the  fire  would  go  out  for 
want  of  coals  ;  but  the  oftener  one  reflects  on  this  sort  of  subjects, 
the  oftener  is  the  oldfashioned  observation  forced  upon  the  mind, 
that  let  a  man  go  where  he  will,  Omnipotence  is  never  from  his 
view." 

This  water,  like  that  of  Saratoga,  is  good  for  every  thing :  for 
those  too  fat  and  those  too  lean,  for  those  too  hot  and  those  too 
cold,  for  all  ages  and  conditions  and  sexes.  After  having  swal- 
lowed a  sufficient  quantity  of  this  broth,  and  what  is  better  still, 
a  good  breakfast,  I  wandered  two  miles,  through  shaded  walks, 
from  the  Kur  Saal  to  the  picturesque  ruins  of  Sonnenberg  Castle. 
Lying  down  under  its  shady  trees,  and  away  from  the  noise  of 
the  bustling  little  village,  I  forgot  for  a  while,  Wiesbaden,  Koch- 
brunnen,  chicken  broth,  and  all. 

This  Kur  Saal  is  a  magnificent  hotel,  built  by  the  Duke,  and 
capable  of  seating  several  hundred  at  dinner.  The  main  saloon 
is  130  feet  long,  60  wide,  and  50  feet  high.  The  price  for  dinner 
is  the  very  reasonable  sum  of  some  thirty-four  or  five  cents. 
Back  of  this  building  is  an  open  area  with  seats  in  it,  where  hun- 
dreds, after  dinner,  sit  and  drink  coffee ;  and  farther  on,  a  passa- 
ble pond,  beautiful  shrubbery,  and  countless  walks.  I  hardly 
know  a  pleasanter  spot  to  spend  a  week  or  two  in  than  Wies- 
baden, were  it  not  for  the  gambling  that  is  constantly  practised. 
In  the  public  rooms  of  the  Kur  Saal  are  roulette  tables  and  other 
apparatus  for  gambling,  which  after  dinner,  and  especially  in  the 
evening,  are  surrounded  with  persons  of  both  sexes,  most  of 
whom  stake  more  or  less  money.  Directly  opposite  me  at  dinner, 
sat  a  young  man  whose  countenance  instantly  attracted  my  at- 
tention. He  was  very  pale  and  thin,  while  his  cold  blue  eye, 
high  cheek  bones,  and  almost  marble  whiteness  and  hardness  of 
features,  together  with  a  sullen,  morose  aspect,  made  me  shrink 
'  from  him  as  from  some  deadly  thing.     Added  to  all  this,  when 


102  A  GAMBLER. 


he  rose  from  the  table,  I  saw  he  had  an  ugly  limp,  which  made 
him  seem  more  unnatural  and  monster-like  than  before. 

Wandering  soon  after  through  the  rooms,  seeing  what  was  to 
be  seen,  I  came  to  a  roulette  table  around  which  were  gathered 
gentlemen  and  ladies  of  all  nations  and  ages,  some  of  them  sta- 
king small  sums  apparently  for  mere  amusement.  Just  then,  this 
sullen  cadaverous  looking  young  man  came  limping  up,  and  de- 
posited a  roll  of  twenty  Napoleons  or  about  #80.  A  single  turn 
of  the  wheel,  and  it  was  lost.  He  quietly  drew  forth  another 
roll,  which  was  also  quickly  lost.  Without  the  least  agitation  or 
apparent  excitement  he  thus  continued  to  draw  forth  one  roll  af- 
ter another  till  ten  of  them  or  about  $800  were  gone.  He  then 
as  quietly,  and  without  saying  a  single  word,  limped  away.  He 
had  not  spoken  or  changed  a  muscle  the  whole  time,  and  mani- 
fested no  more  anxiety  or  regret  than  if  he  had  lost  only  so  many 
pennies.  "  There,"  said  I  to  myself,  as  he  sauntered  away, 
"  goes  a  professed  gambler,  and  he  has  all  the  qualities  for  a  suc- 
cessful one.  Perfectly  cool  and  self-possessed  under  the  most 
provoking  reverses,  he  does  not  get  angry  and  rave  at  fickle,  per- 
verse fortune,  but  takes  it  all  as  a  matter  of  business."  I  then 
knew,  for  the  first  time,  why  I  felt  such  an  antipathy  towards 
him.  A  gambler  carries  his  repulsive  soul  in  his  face,  in  his 
eye,  nay,  almost  in  his  very  gait.  He  makes  a  chilling  atmos- 
phere around  him  that  repels  every  one  that  approaches  him. 
Gambling  seems  to  metamorphose  a  man  more  than  any  other 
crime  except  murder. 

But  let  us  away  from  this  contaminating  influence,  and  forth 
into  God's  beautiful  world — into  the  forest,  and  beauty  and  bloom 
of  nature,  where  one  can  breathe  free  again,  and  feel  the  sooth- 
ing and  balmy  influence  of  the  summer  wind  as  it  creeps  over 
the  mountain  ridges.  The  sun  is  stooping  to  the  western  world, 
hasting,  as  it  were,  to  my  own  beloved  land,  and  the  dark  forests 
of  the  Taunus  seem  to  wave  an  invitation  to  their  cool  shades. 

Taking  a  guide  with  me,  I  mounted  a  donkey  and  started  for 
"  Die  Platte,"  or  the  duke's  hunting  seat,  four  miles  distant,  on 
the  very  summit  of  the  Taunus.  For  a  long  while  we  trotted 
along  together,  when,  all  at  once,  a  flock  of  deer  burst  from  the 
thicket,  and  bounded  across  our  path.     Going  a  little  way  into  the 


HUNTING  CHATEAU.  103 

wood,  they  stopped,  and  allowed  me  to  urge  my  donkey  to  within 
a  few  rods  of  them.  Indeed  they  seemed  almost  as  tame  as  sheep. 
I  asked  my  guide  what  would  be  the  penalty  if  he  should  shoot 
one  of  those  deer.  "  Three  years'  imprisonment,"  he  replied. 
"  In  my  country,"  said  I,  "there  are  plenty  of  deer,  and  you  can 
shoot  one  down  wherever  you  find  it.  and  have  it  after  it  is  killed." 
He  looked  at  me  a  moment,  in  astonishment,  and  then  simply  said, 
"  That  must  be  a  strange  country."  A  strange  country  indeed 
to  him,  who  was  going  through  a  wide  unbroken  forest,  and  yet 
could  not  even  take  a  wild  bird's  nest  without  paying  a  fine  of  five 
florins.  At  length  we  reached  the  duke's  hunting  seat,  a  white 
cubic  building,  standing  alone  and  naked  on  the  very  summit  of 
the  hill.  Two  huge  bronze  stags  stand  at  the  entrance,  while 
immense  antlers  are  nailed  up  in  every  part  of  the  hall,  and 
along  the  staircase,  with  a  paper  under  each,  telling  that  it  was 
shot  by  the  duke,  and  the  date  of  the  remarkable  achievement.  I 
could  not  but  smile  at  this  little  piece  of  ostentation,  as  I  had  just 
seen  how  difficult  it  must  be  to  kill  one  of  these  deer.  I  had  rode 
on  horseback  (or,  rather,  donkeyback)  to  within  pistol  shot  of  four 
as  fine  fellows  as  ever  tossed  their  antlers  through  the  forest,  and 
then  was  compelled  to  halloo  to  frighten  them  away.  I  am  afraid 
the  duke  would  hardly  show  as  many  trophies  if  compelled  to  hunt 
his  game  in  our  primeval  forests.  The  chief  room  of  this  building 
is  circular,  and  has  a  row  of  antlers  going  entirely  around  it, 
halfway  up  the  lofty  ceiling ;  while  every  piece  of  furniture  in 
it — chairs,  sofas,  stools,  and  all — are  made  of  deer'  horns  in  their 
natural  state.  I  suppose  they  must  have  been  steamed  and  bent 
into  the  very  convenient  shapes  they  certainly  present.  The 
cushions  are  all  made  of  tanned  deer-skins,  adorned  with  hunting 
scenes,  forest  landscapes,  &c.  From  the  top  of  this  hunting 
chateau  I  saw  the  glorious  Rhine,  flowing,  in  a  waving  line, 
through  the  landscape,  while  cultivated  fields  and  vineyards,  and 
forest-covered  hills,  and  old  castles,  and  towers,  and  cottages 
spread  away  on  the  excited  vision  in  all  the  irregular  harmony 
of  nature ;  and  the  glorious  orb  of  day  threw  its  farewell  light  over 
the  whole,  as  it  dropped  to  its  repose  over  distant  France.  I  turn- 
ed back  to  Wiesbaden,  through  the  deepening  shades  of  the  forest, 


104  A  LADY  GAMBLER. 

greeted  ever  and  anon,  by  the  flitting  form  of  a  noble  deer,  as  he 
bounded  away  to  his  evening  shelter. 

At  night  the  Kur  Saal  is  thronged  with  persons  of  both  sexes ; — 
and,  as  I  strolled  through  it,  I  came  again  upon  a  gambling  table, 
around  which  were  sitting  gentlemen  and  ladies  of  every  age  and 
nation.  English  girls  were  teasing  their  "  papas"  for  a  few  sove- 
reigns to  stake  on  the  turning  of  a  card,  and  old  men  were  watch- 
ing the  changes  of  the  game  with  all  the  eagerness  of  youth. 
One  lady,  in  particular,  attracted  my  attention.  She  was  from 
Belgium,  and  her  whole  appearance  indicated  a  person  from  the 
upper  ranks  of  society.  To  an  elegant  form  she  added  a  com- 
plexion of  incomparable  whiteness,  which  contrasted  beautifully 
vv^ith  her  rich  auburn  tresses  that  flowed  in  ample  ringlets  around 
her  neck.  Clad  in  simple  white,  and  adorned  with  a  profusion  of 
jewels,  she  took  her  seat  by  the  table,  while  her  husband  stood 
behind  her  chair ;  and,  with  her  delicate  white  hand  on  a  pile  of 
money  before  her,  entered  at  once  into  the  excitement  of  the  game. 
As  she  sat,  and  with  her  small  rake  drew  to  her,  or  pushed  from 
her,  the  money  she  won  or  lost,  I  gazed  on  her  with  feelings  with 
which  I  had  never  before  contemplated  a  woman.  I  did  not  think 
it  was  possible  for  an  elegant  and  well-dressed  lady  to  fill  me  with 
feelings  of  such  utter  disgust.  Her  very  beauty  became  ugliness, 
and  her  auburn  tresses  looked  more  unbecoming  than  the  elfin 
locks  of  a  sorceress.  Her  appearance  and  her  occupation  pre- 
sented such  an  utter  contrast,  that  she  seemed  infinitely  uglier  to 
me  than  the  cold-blooded,  cadaverous  looking  gambler  I  had  seen 
lose  his  money  a  few  hours  before.  While  I  was  mentally  com- 
paring them,  in  he  came,  limping  towards  the  table.  I  was  half 
tempted  to  peep  round  and  see  if  he  had  not  a  cloven  foot.  With 
the  same  marble-like  features  and  forbidding  aspect  he  approach- 
ed and  laid  down  a  roll  of  twenty  Napoleons.  He  won,  and  putting 
down  another,  won  again ;  and  thus  he  continued,  winning  one 
after  another,  till  he  had  got  back  the  ten  rolls  he  had  lost  before, 
and  two  in  addition.  Then,  without  waiting  for  fortune  to  turn 
against  him,  he  walked  away,  not  having  spoken  a  word. 

Turning  to  a  bath-house,  I  threw  myself  into  the  steaming 
water  for  an  hour,  and  then  retired  to  my  couch.  These  baths 
are  so  large  one  can  swim  around  in  them,  and  are  arranged  in  a 


CURIOUS  MODE  OF  BATHING.  105 

row,  with  only  a  high  partition  between  them,  so  that  you  can 
hear  every  splash  and  groan  of  your  neighbour  in  the  next  apart- 
ment. On  one  side  of  me  was  an  old  man,  apparently,  whose 
kicks,  at  long  intervals,  told  me  he  was  yet  alive.  Some  two  or 
three  women  were  on  the  other  side,  whose  laughter  and  rapid 
German  kept  up  a  constant  Babel,  while  the  steam  came  rolling 
up  over  where  I  lay  like  the  smoke  from  a  coal-pit.  I  do  not 
know  what  idea  these  Germans  have  of  delicacy,  but  this  hearing 
your  neighbours  kicking  and  splashing  around  you,  while  the 
whole  building  is  open  the  entire  length  overhead,  would  not  be 
tolerated  in  my  own  country. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  these  gambling  "  hells"  are  not  in 
out  of  the  way  places,  but  meet  you  as  they  would  if  placed  in 
the  public  rooms  of  the  hotels  at  Saratoga,  and  were  patronized  by 
the  fashionables  of  both  sexes  from  New  York  city.  Methinks 
it  is  time  another  Luther  had  -arisen  to  sweep  away  this  chaff  of 
Germany. 


106  THE  NEIDER  SELTERS. 


XX. 

SCHWALBACH  AND  SCHLANGENBAD. 


There  are  other  mineral  waters  in  Nassau  besides  those  of 
Wiesbaden,  and  differing  from  them  entirely  in  taste  and  temper- 
ature. Schwalbach  contains  several  springs  very  much  like  the 
Congress,  Pavilion  and  Iodine  Springs  of  Saratoga.  One  called 
the  Weinbrunnen,  from  the  fancied  resemblance  of  the  water  to 
wine,  reminds  one  very  much  of  the  sparkling  water  of  the  Pa- 
vilion Spring.  The  Stahlbrunnen  and  the  Pauline  in  the  same 
place,  differ  from  each  other  only  in  the  little  different  proportions 
in  which  iron  and  carbonic  acid  gas  are  found  in  them.  It  is  but 
a  day's  ride  from  this  to  the  famous  Nieder  Selters,  the  spring 
from  which  the  well  known  and  almost  universally  circulated 
Seltzer  water  is  obtained.  Sir  Francis  Head's  description  of  this 
spring  and  the  mode  of  obtaining  thp  water  is  better  than  any  I 
could  give.  Says  he  :  "  On  approaching  a  large  circular  shed 
covered  with  a  slated  roof,  supported  by  posts  but  open  on  all 
sides,  I  found  the  single  brunnen  or  well  from  which  this  highly 
celebrated  water  is  forwarded  to  almost  every  quarter  of  the  globe 
— to  India,  the  West  Indies,  the  Mediterranean,  Paris,  London, 
and  to  almost  every  city  in  Germany.  The  hole,  which  was 
about  five  feet  square,  was  bounded  by  a  framework  of  four 
strong  beams  mortised  together,  and  the  bottom  of  the  shed  being 
boarded,  it  resembled  very  much,  both  in  shape  and  dimensions, 
one  of  the  hatches  in  the  deck  of  a  ship.  A  small  crane  with 
three  arms,  to  each  of  which  there  was  suspended  a  square  iron 
crate  or  basket  a  little  smaller  than  the  brunnen,  stood  about  ten 
feet  off;  and  while  peasant  girls,  with  a  stone  bottle  (holding 
three  pints)  dangling  on  every  finger  of  each  hand,  were  rapidly 


MODE   OF   FILLING  THE  BOTTLES.  107 

filling  two  of  these  crates,  which  contained  seventy  bottles,  a  man 
turned  the  third  by  a  winch,  until  it  hung  immediately  over  the 
brunnen,  into  which  it  then  rapidly  descended.  The  air  in  these 
seventy  bottles  being  immediately  displaced  by  the  water,  a  great 
bubbling  of  course  ensued,  but  in  about  twenty  seconds  this  hav- 
ing subsided,  the  crate  was  raised;  and  while  seventy  more 
bottles  descended  from  another  arm  of  the  crane,  a  fresh  set  of 
girls  curiously  carried  off  these  full  bottles,  one  on  each  finger 
of  each  hand,  ranging  them  in  long  rows  upon  a  large  table  or 
dresser,  also  beneath  the  shed.  No  sooner  were  they  there  than 
two  men,  with  surprising  activity,  put  a  cork  into  each  ;  while 
two  drummers,  with  a  long  stick  in  each  of  their  hands,  hammer- 
ing them  down,  appeared  as  if  they  were  playing  upon  musical 
glasses.  Another  set  of  young  women  now  instantly  carried 
them  off,  four  and  five  in  each  hand,  to  men  who,  with  sharp 
knives,  sliced  off  the  projecting  part  of  the  cork ;  and  this  opera- 
tion being  over,  the  poor  jaded  bottles  were  delivered  over  to 
women,  each  of  whom  actually  covered  three  thousand  of  them  a 
day  with  white  leather,  which  they  firmly  bound  with  pack-thread 
round  the  corks ;  and  then,  without  placing  the  bottles  on  the 
ground,  they  delivered  them  over  to  a  man  seated  beside  them, 
who,  without  any  apology,  dipped  each  of  their  noses  into  boiling 
hot  rosin,  and  before  they  had  recovered  from  this  unexpected 
operation,  the  Duke  of  Nassau's  seal  was  stamped  upon  them  by 
another  man,  when  then  they  were  hurried,  sixteen  and  twenty  at 
a  time,  by  girls,  to  magazines,  where  they  peacefully  remained 
ready  for  exportation. 

"  Having  followed  a  set  of  bottles  from  the  brunnen  to  the  store 
where  I  left  them  resting  from  their  labours,  I  strolled  to  another 
part  of  the  establishment,  where  were  empty  bottles  calmly  wait- 
ing for  their  turn  to  be  filled.  I  here  counted  twenty-five  bins  of 
bottles,  each  four  yards  broad,  six  yards  deep,  and  eight  feet  high. 
A  number  of  young  girls  were  carrying  thirty-four  of  them  at  a 
time  to  an  immense  reservoir,  which  was  kept  constantly  full,  by 
a  large  fountain  pipe,  of  beautiful,  clear  fresh  water." 

Speaking  of  the  number  of  bottles  that  strew  the  road  in  every 
direction,  and  make  the  very  place  look  as  if  it  had  been  once 
made  of  bottles  and  overthrown  in  a  thunder  storm,  leaving  its 


108  NUMBER  OF  BOTTLES  EXPORTED. 

wreck  on  the  ground,  he  says :  "  The  little  children  really  looked 
as  if  they  were  made  of  bottles  :  some  wore  a  pyramid  of  them  in 
baskets  on  their  heads; — some  of  them  were  laden  with  them, 
hanging  over  their  shoulders,  before  and  behind  ; — some  carried 
them  strapped  round  their  middle,  all  their  hands  full ;  and  the 
little  urchins  that  could  scarcely  walk,  were  advancing,  each 
hugging  in  its  arms  one  single  bottle  !  In  fact,  at  Nieder  Selters 
*  an  infant '  means  a  being  totally  unable  to  carry  a  bottle ;  pu- 
berty and  manhood  are  proved  by  bottles ;  a  strong  man  brags  of 
the  number  he  can  carry,  and  superannuation  means  being  nO 
longer  able  in  this  world  to  bear bottles. 

"  The  road  to  the  brunuen  is  actually  strewed  with  fragments, 
and  so  are  the  ditches ;  and  when  the  reader  is  informed  that,  be- 
sides all  he  has  so  patiently  heard,  bottles  are  not  only  expended, 
filled  and  exported,  but  actually  made  at  Nieder  Selters,  he  must 
admit  that  no  writer  can  do  justice  to  that  place  unless  every  line 
of  his  description  contains  at  least  once  the  word — hottle.  The 
moralists  of  Nieder  Selters  preach  on  bottles.  Life,  they  say,  is 
a  sound  bottle,  and  death  a  cracked  one.  Thoughtless  men  are 
empty  bottles ;  drunken  men  are  leaky  ones ;  and  a  man  highly 
educated,  fit  to  appear  in  any  country  and  any  society,  is  of 
course,  a  bottle  corked,  rosined,  and  stamped  with  the  seal  of  the 
Duke  of  Nassau." 

This  humorous  and  graphic  description  will  not  be  thought 
much  exaggerated  when  we  remember  that  nearly  a  million  and 
a  half  of  bottles  are  annually  carried  out  of  that  small  inland 
German  town,  to  say  nothing  of  another  million  and  a  half  bro- 
ken there.  In  the  year  1832  there  were  exported  from  that 
spring  1,295,183  bottles.  If  they  were  all  quart  bottles,  it  would 
amount  to  over  a  thousand  barrels  of  mineral  water,  which  annu- 
ally goes  down  somebodies'  throats.  This  valuable  spring  was 
originally  bought  by  the  ancestor  of  the  Duke  for  a  single  butt  of 
wine,  and  it  now  yields  a  nett  profit  of  over  $26,000  per  annum. 

Schlangenbad,  or  the  Serpent's  bath,  is  another  of  the  brunnens 
of  Nassau.  Schlangenbad  is  in  a  secluded  spot,  and  takes  its 
name  from  the  quantity  of  snakes  that  live  about  it,  swimming 
around  in  the  spring  and  crawling  through  the  houses  with  the  ut- 
most liberty.     The  waters  are  celebrated  for  their  effect  on  the 


LEGEND  OF  THE  SERPENT'S  BATH.       109 

skin,  reducing  it  almost  to  marble  whiteness.  The  most  invete- 
rate wrinkles  and  the  roughest  skin  become  smooth  and  white 
under  the  wonderful  effects  of  this  water.  Acting  as  a  sort  of 
corrosive,  it  literally  scours  a  man  white,  and  then  soaks  him  soft 
and  smooth.  Says  Francis  Head,  "  I  one  day  happened  to  over- 
hear a  fat  Frenchman  say  to  his  friend,  after  he  had  been  lying 
in  one  of  these  baths  a  half  an  hour :  *  Monsieur,  dans  ces  bains 
ou  devient  absolument  amour eux  de  soi  meme.^  '  Sir,  in  these 
baths,  one  absolutely  becomes  enamoured  of  himself.'  "  So 
great  is  the  effect  of  this  water  on  the  skin,  that  it  is  bottled  and 
sent  to  the  most  distant  parts  of  Europe  as  a  cosmetic. 

The  Germans  have  some  mysterious  origin  to  every  thing,  and 
what  the  Italians  refer  to  the  Madonna,  they  attribute  to  some  in- 
definite mysterious  agency.  This  spring,  they  say,  was  discov- 
ered by  a  sick  heifer.  Having  been  wasting  away  a  long  time, 
till  her  bones  seemed  actually  to  be  pushing  through  her  skin,  and 
she  was  given  up  by  the  herdsman  to  die ;  she  all  at  once  disap- 
peared and  was  gone  for  several  weeks.  No  one  thought  of  her, 
as  it  was  supposed  she  was  dead,  but  one  day  she  unexpectedly 
returned,  a  sleek,  fat,  bright-eyed  and  nimble  heifer.  Every 
evening,  however,  she  disappeared,  which  excited  the  curiosity  of 
the  herdsman  so  that  he  at  length  followed  her,  when  to  his  sur- 
prise he  saw  her  approach  this  spring,  then  unknown,  from  which 
having  drank,  she  quietly  returned.  Not  long  after,  a  beautiful 
young  lady  began  to  waste  away  precisely  like  the  heifer,  and 
all  medicines  and  nursing  were  in  vain,  and  she  was  given  over 
to  die. 

The  herdsman  who  had  seen  the  wonderful  cure  performed  on 
one  of  his  herd  being  told  of  her  sickness,  went  to  her  and  besought 
her  to  try  the  spring.  Like  a  sensible  man,  he  thought  what  was 
good  for  the  heifer  was  good  for  the  woman.  She  consented  to 
try  the  remedy,  and  in  a  few  weeks  was  one  of  the  freshest,  fat- 
test, plumpest  young  women  in  all  the  country  round.  From  that 
moment,  of  course,  the  fame  of  the  spring  was  secured,  and  it  has 
gone  on  increasing  in  reputation,  till  now  the  secluded  spot  is  vis- 
ited by  persons  from  every  part  of  Europe. 

The  duchy  of  Nassau  is  a  beautiful  portion  of  Germany,  and 


110  DESPOTISM  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  NASSAU. 

if  the  Duke  would  only  abrogate,  like  a  sensible  man,  some  of  his 
foolish  tyrannical  feudal  laws,  and  become  a  father  to  his  subjects, 
it  would  be  a  delightful  spot  every  way.  But  the  petty  prince  of 
every  petty  province  seems  to  think  he  is  more  like  a  king  the 
more  despotic  he  behaves. 


MAYENCE.  Ill 


XXI. 
MAYENCE-THE  RHINE. 


Mayence  or  Mainz  lies  at  the  upper  termination  of  the  fine 
scenery  of  the  Rhine.  From  this  to  Coblenz,  nearly  sixty  miles, 
this  river  is  lined  with  towns,  and  convents,  and  castles,  as  rich 
in  association  as  the  ruins  around  Rome. 

Mayence  has  its  sights  for  the  traveller,  among  which  are  the 
cathedral,  the  ruins  of  an  old  Roman  structure,  a  museum  of 
paintings,  several  monuments,  &c.,  which  I  will  pass  over. 
There  are  two  things  worth  recording  of  Mayence.  It  was  here 
the  famous  Hanseatic  League  (the  result  of  the  Rhenish  League) 
was  formed  by  a  confederation  of  cities.  It  was  the  first  effec- 
tual blow  aimed  against  unjust  restrictions  on  commerce.  Rob- 
ber chieftains  had  lined  the  Rhine  from  Cologne  to  Mayence  with 
castles,  which  frowned  down  on  the  river  that  washed  their  foun- 
dations ;  and  levied  tribute  on  every  passing  vessel.  In  the  mid- 
dle ages  there  were  thirty-two  *•  toll-gates"  of  these  bold  highway- 
men on  the  river.  Now  the  only  chieftain  on  the  Rhine  who  is 
still  allowed  to  hold  and  exercise  his  feudal  right,  is  the  Duke  of 
Nassau.  Under  this  strong  confederation,  the  haughty  castles 
one  after  another  went  down,  and  there  is  now  scarcely  a  ruin 
that  does  not  bear  the  mark  of  the  Emperor  Rudolph's  stroke. 
Commerce  was  freed  from  the  heavy  exactions  that  weighed  it 
down,  and  sailed  with  spreading  canvass  and  fearless  prow  under 
the  gloomy  shadows  of  the  castles  that  had  once  been  its  terror 
and  destroyer. 

Byron  looked  on  these  castles  with  the  eye  of  a  poet,  and  felt 
vastly  more  sympathy  for  the  robber  chieftains  that  lived  by  vio- 
lence, than  for  the  peaceful  traders  whose  bodies  were  often  lefl 


112  THE  CHIEFS  OF  THE  RHINE. 

floating  down  the  Rhine.  It  is  well  for  the  world  that  those  who 
formed  the  Hanseatic  League  were  not  poets  of  the  Lara,  Childe 
Harold,  and  Manfred  school.  Seeing  very  little  romance  in  hav- 
ing their  peaceful  inhabitants  fired  upon  by  robbers  who  were 
fortunate  enough  to  live  in  castles,  they  wisely  concluded  to  put 
a  stop  to  it.  Had  they  not  taken  this  practical  view  of  the  mat- 
ter, Byron  would  probably  not  have  been  allowed  to  poetise  so 
much  at  his  leisure  and  with  such  freedom  of  expression,  as  he  did 
when  he  sung  of  the  "chiefless  castles  breathing  stern  farewells." 

"  And  there  they  stand  as  stands  a  lofty  mind, 

Worn  but  unstooping  to  the  baser  crowd, 

All  tenantless  save  to  the  cranuying  wind, 

Or  holding  dark  communion  with  the  cloud. 

There  was  a  day  when  they  were  young  and  proud, 

Banners  on  high  and  battles  passed  below  ; 

But  they  who  fought  are  in  a  bloody  shroud, 

And  those  which  waved  are  shredless  dust  ere  now, 
And  the  bleak  battlements  shall  bear  no  future  blow. 

Beneath  those  battlements,  within  those  walls. 
Power  dwelt  amidst  her  passions  ;  in  proud  state 
Each  robber  chief  upheld  his  armed  halls. 
Doing  his  evil  will,  nor  less  elate 
Than  mightier  heroes  of  a  longer  date. 
What  want  these  outlaw  conquerors  should  have, 
But  history's  purchased  page  to  call  them  groat  ? 
A  wider  space  an  ornamented  grave, 
Their  hopes  were  not  less  warm,  their  souls  were  full  as  brave. 

In  their  baronial  feuds  and  single  iSelds 
What  deeds  of  prowess  unrecorded  died  ? 
And  Love,  which  lent  a  blazon  to  their  shields. 
With  emblems  well  devised  by  amorous  pride. 
Through  all  the  mail  of  iron  hearts  would  glide  ; 
But  still  their  flame  was  fierceness,  and  drew  on 
Keen  contest  and  destruction  near  allied, 
And  many  a  tower  for  some  fair  mischief  won, 
Saw  the  discoloured  Rhine,  beneath  its  ruin  run. 

But  thou,  exulting  and  abounding  river! 
Making  thy  waves  a  blessing  as  they  flow 


THE  FIRST   PRINTING  PRESS.  113 

— _ . _ 1 


Through  banks  whose  beauty  would  endure  forever 
Could  man  but  leave  thy  bright  creations  so, 
Nor  its  fair  promise  from  the  surface  mow 
With  the  sharp  scythe  of  conflict, — then  to  see 
Thy  valley  of  sweet  waters,  were  to  know 
Earth  proved  like  Heaven  ;  and  to  seem  such  to  me, 
Even  now  what  wants  thy  stream  ? — that  it  should  Lethe  be. 

A  thousand  battles  have  assailed  thy  banks, 
But  these  and  half  their  fame  have  passed  away, 
And  Slaughter  heaped  on  high  his  welt'ring  ranks, 
Their  very  graves  are  gone,  and  what  are  they  ? 
Thy  tide  washed  down  the  blood  of  yesterday : 
And  all  was  stainless,  and  on  thy  clear  stream 
Glossed  with  its  dancing  light  the  sunny  ray, 
•  But  o'er  the  blackened  memory's  blighting  dream 

Thy  waves  would  vainly  roll,  all  sweeping  as  they  seem." 

Thus  mused  the  haughty  misanthropic  bard  along  the  Rhine ; — 
and  these  few  sentences,  by  the  conflicting  sentiments  that  per- 
vade them,  exhibit  the  perfect  chaos  of  principle  and  feeling  amid 
which  he  struggled  with  more  desperation  than  wisdom.  One 
moment  he  expresses  regret  that  those  old  feudal  chiefs  have 
passed  away,  declaring,  on  the  faith  of  a  bard,  that  they  were  as 
good  as  their  destroyers,  and  the  next  moment  pouring  his  note  of 
lamentation  over  the  evils  of  war. 

The  other  notable  event  in  the  history  of  Mayence  is — the  first 
printing  press  was  established  here. 

There  is  a  monument  here  to  Gensfleisch  {goose  jlesh),  called 
Gutemberg,  a  native  of  the  place,  who  was  the  inventor  of  move- 
able types.  This  first  printing  office,  occupied  by  him  between 
the  years  1443  and  1450,  is  still  standing.  One  could  moralize 
over  it  an  hour.  From  the  first  slow  arrangement  of  those  move- 
able types  to  the  present  diffiision  of  printed  matter,  what  a  long 
stride  !  He  who  could  hear  the  first  crippled  movement  of  that  min- 
iature press,  the  only  one  whose  faint  sound  rose  from  this  round 
earth ;  and  then  catch  the  din  and  thunder  of  the  *'  ten  thousand 
times  ten  thousand"  steam  presses  that  are  shaking  the  very  con- 
tinents on  which  they  rest  with  their  fierce  action ;  would  see  an 
onward  step  in  the  progress  of  the  race  more  prophetic  of  change 

9 


114  BRIDGE   OF  BOATS. 


than  in  the  conquests  of  the  Caesars.  The  quiet,  thoughtful  Gens- 
fleisch  little  knew  what  an  earthquake  he  was  generating  as  he 
slowly  distributed  those  few  types.  If  the  sudden  light  which 
rushed  on  the  world  had  burst  on  his  vision,  and  the  shaking  of 
empires  and  sound  of  armies,  set  in  motion  by  the  diffusion  of 
thoughts  and  truths  which  the  press  had  scattered  on  its  lightning- 
like pinions,  met  his  ear,  he  would  have  been  alarmed  at  his  la- 
bour, and  trembled  as  he  held  the  first  printed  leaf  in  his  hand. 
That  printed  page  was  a  richer  token  to  the  desponding  world 
than  the  olive  leaf  which  the  dove  bore  back  to  the  Ark  from  the 
subsiding  deluge.  Men,  as  they  roam  by  the  Rhine,  talk  of  old 
Schomberg  and  Blucher  and  Ney,  and  heroes  of  martial  renown, 
but  John  Gensfleisch  and  Martin  Luther  are  the  two  mightiest 
men  that  lie  along  its  shores.  The  armies  that  struggled  here  are 
still,  and  their  renowned  battle-fields  have  returned  again  to  the 
hand  of  the  husbandman ;  but  the  struggle  commenced  by  these 
men  has  not  yet  reached  its  height,  and  the  armies  they  marshall- 
ed not  yet  counted  their  numbers,  or  fought  their  greatest  battle. 

Well,  brave  Gutemberg,  (to  descend  from  great  things  to  small) 
I  here,  on  thy  own  moveable  types,  lay  my  offering  to  thee,  and 
salute  thee  "greater  than  a  king." 

A  bridge  of  boats,  one  thousand  six  hundred  and  sixty-six  feet 
long,  here  crosses  the  Rhine  to  Cassel,  the  railroad  depot  for 
Frankfort  and  Wiesbaden.  It  is  strongly  fortified,  and  commands 
the  bridge  in  a  manner  that  would  make  the  passage  of  it  by  a 
hostile  army,  like  the  passage  of  the  bridge  of  Lodi.  The  boats 
which  form  it  lie  with  their  heads  up  stream,  secured  to  the  bed 
of  the  river  by  strong  fastenings  ;  and  covered  with  planks.  Sec- 
tions here  and  there  swing  back  to  admit  the  free  passage  of  boats, 
while  nearly  half  of  the  whole  line  is  compelled  to  retire  before 
one  of  those  immense  rafts  of  timber  which  are  floated  down  the 
Rhine. 


ASSOCIATIONS  OF  THE  RHINE.  115 


XXII. 

THE  CASTELLATED  RHINE 


"  The  Rhine  !  the  Rhine  !"  which  has  been  the  shout  of  glad 
armies,  as  its  silver  sheen  flashed  on  their  eyes  as  they  came 
over  the  surrounding  heights,  is  interesting  more  from  its  associa- 
tion than  its  scenery.  The  changes  that  have  come  over  the 
world  are  illustrated  more  strikingly  here  than  even  in  Rome. 
The  old  convent  where  the  jolly  friar  revelled,  is  converted  into 
a  manufactory — the  steamboat  is  rushing  past  the  nodding  castles 
of  feudal  chiefs — the  modern  town  straggling  through  the  ruins 
of  once  lordly  cities,  and  all  the  motion  and  excitement  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  over  the  unburied  corpses  of  the  first  fourteen 
centuries.  There  is  probably  no  river  on  our  globe  more  rich 
in  associations  than  the  Rhine.  Navigable  for  over  six  hundred 
miles,  through  the  very  heart  of  Europe,  its  dominion  has  been 
battled  for  for  nineteen  centuries.  From  the  time  the  Roman 
legions  trod  its  shores,  and  shouted  victory  in  good  classic  Latin, 
or  retired  before  the  fierce  charge  of  barbaric  warriors ;  to  the 
middle  ages,  when  feudal  chiefs  reared  their  castles  here,  and 
performed  deeds  of  daring  and  chivalry  that  dimly  live  in  old 
traditions  ;  it  has  been  the  field  of  great  exploits,  and  witnessed  the 
most  important  event  of  European  history.  It  has  been  no  less  the 
scene  of  stirring  events  in  modern  times.  The  French  Revolu- 
tion, after  it  had  reduced  France  to  chaos,  rolled  heavily  towards 
the  Rhine.  On  its  banks  was  the  first  great  struggle  between  the 
young  and  strong  Democracy,  and  the  haughty,  but  no  longer 
vigorous  Feudalism.  Here  kingship  first  trembled  for  its  crown 
and  throne,  and  Europe  gathered  in  haste  to  save  its  tottering 
monarchies.     On  its  shores  France  stood  and  shouted  to  the 


116  SCENERY   OF  THE  RHINE. 

nations  beyond,  sending  over  the  startled  waters  the  cry,  "  All 
men  are  born  free  and  equal,"  till  the  murmur  of  the  people 
answered  it.  The  Rhine  has  seen  the  armies  of  the  Cassars  along 
its  banks — the  castles  of  feudal  chiefs  flinging  their  shadows  over 
its  placid  bosom — the  printing  press  rise  in  its  majesty  beside  it, 
and  the  stern  Luther  tread  along  its  margin  muttering  words  that 
shook  the  world.  It  has  also  borne  Bonaparte  and  his  strong 
legions  on,  yet  amid  it  all — amid  crumbling  empires,  and  through 
the  smoke  of  battle — undisturbed  by  the  violence  and  change  that 
have  ploughed  up  its  banks,  lined  them  with  kingdoms,  and 
strewed  them  with  their  ruins — it  has  ever  rolled,  the  same  quiet 
current,  to  the  sea.  Its  scenery  is  also  beautiful,  but  not  so  much 
when  viewed  from  its  surface  as  when  seen  from  the  diflTerent 
points  of  prospect  furnished  by  the  heights  around.  From  the 
old  castles  on  the  shores  and  the  ridges  around,  the  landscape  has 
almost  endless  variations,  yet  is  always  beautiful. 

Byron  has  combined  all  the  striking  features  of  the  Rhine  in 
a  single  verse,  yet  coloured  some  of  them  a  little  too  highly. 

**  The  negligently  grand,  the  fruitful  bloom, 
Of  coming  ripeness,  the  white  city's  sheen, 
'*  The  rolling  stream,  the  precipice's  gloom, 

The  forest's  growth,  and  Gothic  walls  between, 
The  wild  rocks  shaped  as  they  had  turrets  been 
In  mockery  of  man's  art ;  and  these  withal 
A  race  of  faces  happy  as  the  scene. 
Whose  fertile  bounties  here  extend  to  all. 
Still  springing  o'er  thy  banks,  though  empires  near  them  fall." 

Almost  every  castle  has,  with  its  real  history,  some  wild  tradi- 
tion connected ;  which,  though  it  may  or  may  not  be  true,  adds 
great  interest  to  the  mysterious  ruin.  In  looking  over  the  guide 
book  I  was  struck  with  the  number  of  "  outline  sketches"  for 
magazine  tales — ^thrilling  novels,  &c.,  furnished  on  almost  every 
page.  In  a  few  sentences  will  be  told  the  fate  of  some  old  feudal 
lord,  or  his  beautiful  daughter,  of  whose  private  history  one  would 
gladly  know  more.  Thus  at  Braesemberg  are  the  ruins  of  two 
castles,  of  one  of  which,  the  Bromserhof,  we  are  told  that  "  tra- 
dition says,  that  one  of  these  knights,  Bonser  of  Rudesheim,  on 


TRADITION  OF  BRAESEMBERG.  117 

repairing  to  Palestine,  signalized  hinnself  by  destroying  a  dragon, 
which  was  the  terror  of  the  Christian  army.  No  sooner  had  he 
accomplished  it,  than  he  was  taken  prisoner  by  the  Saracens ;  and 
while  languishing  in  captivity,  he  made  a  vow,  that  if  ever  he 
returned  to  his  castle  of  Rudesheim,  he  would  devote  his  only 
daughter,  Gisela,  to  the  church.  He  arrived  at  length,  a  pilgrim, 
at  his  castle,  and  was  met  by  his  daughter,  now  grown  into  a 
lovely  woman.  Gisela  loved,  and  was  beloved  by  a  young  knight 
from  a  neighbouring  castle,  and  she  heard  with  consternation  her 
father's  vow.  Her  tears  and  entreaties  could  not  change  his 
purpose.  He  threatened  her  with  his  curse  if  she  did  not  obey  ; 
and  in  the  midst  of  a  violent  storm,  she  precipitated  herself  from 
the  tower  of  the  castle  into  the  Rhine  below.  The  fishermen 
found  her  corpse  the  next  day  in  the  river,  by  the  tower  of  Hatto, 
and  the  boatmen  and  vintagers  at  this  day  fancy  they  sometimes 
see  the  pale  form  of  Gisela  hovering  about  the  ruined  tower,  and 
hear  her  voice  mingling  its  lamentations  with  the  mournful  whis- 
tlings of  the  wind."  I  leave  to  some  one  else  the  filling  up  this 
outline.  There  is  the  scene  of  the  first  interview  of  this  selfish 
old  Jephtha  with  his  daughter — the  wild  meetings  of  the  two 
lovers — the  pleadings  with  the  father — the  rash  purposes,  and  the 
final  leap  from  the  castle  tower,  of  the  beautiful  Gisela — all  fair 
property  for  the  weaver  of  romances — a  sort  of  schedule  already 
made  out  for  him. 

This  tower  of  Hatto,  at  the  base  of  which  was  found  the  form 
of  Gisela,  is  some  distance  farther  down  the  river.  In  descending 
to  it  one  passes  the  vineyards  of  the  famed  Rudesheim  wine,  and 
the  white  castle  of  St.  Roch.  The  Bishop  of  Hatto  has  been  im- 
mortalized by  Southey,  in  his  "  Traditions  of  Bishop  Hatto,"  com- 
mencing with  the  imaginative  line 

"  The  summer  and  autumn  had  been  so  wet." 

Here  begins  the  "  Rhine  gorge,"  which  furnishes  the  most  beau- 
tiful scenery  on  the  river.  The  banks  of  the  stream  become  more 
precipitous  and  rocky,  affording  secure  frontiers  for  the  feudal 
chiefs  that  fortified  themselves  upon  them.  Ruined  castles — gaping 
towers — dilapidated  fortresses,  begin  to  crowd  with  almost  start- 
ling rapidity  on  the  beholder.     As  the  boat  flies  along  on  the  swift 


118  CASTLES  OF  THE  RHINE. 

current  of  the  stream  he  has  scarcely  time  to  read  the  history  and 
traditions  of  one,  before  another  claims  his  attention.  Placed  in 
every  variety  of  position,  and  presenting  memorials  of  almost  eve- 
ry century,  they  keep  the  imagination  in  constant  activity.  The 
castles  of  Falkenburg  perched  on  its  rocky  eminence ;  Reichenstein 
and  Rheinstein,  a  little  lower  down,  are  grouped  together  in  one 
coup  d'(Bil,  while  the  falling  turrets  of  Sonneck  rush  to  meet  you 
from  below,  and  the  castle  of  Heimberg  frowns  over  the  village  at 
its  feet.  Next  comes  old  Furstenberg  with  its  round  tower  and 
crumbling  walls,  and  then  Nottingen,  and  after  it  the  massive 
fragments  of  Stahleck  castle,  looking  gloomily  down  from  the 
heights  of  Bacharach.  While  I  was  thus  casting  my  eyes,  first 
on  one  side,  and  then  the  other,  of  the  river,  as  these,  to  me  new 
and  strange  objects,  came  and  went  on  my  vision,  suddenly  from 
out  the  centre  of  the  river  rose  the  castle  of  Pfalz.  We  had 
scarcely  passed  it  before  the  batt  ements  of  Gutenfels  appeared, 
and  soon  after  the  rock-founded  castle  of  Schaenberg.  Tradition 
says  that  it  received  the  name  of  Beautiful  Hill  from  seven  beau- 
tiful daughters  of  one  of  the  old  chieftains.  Though  beloved  and 
sought  for  by  all  the  young  knights  far  and  near,  they  turned  a 
deaf  ear  to  every  suitor,  and  finally,  for  their  hardheartedness, 
were  turned  into  seven  rocks,  which  still  remain,  a  solemn  warn- 
ing  to  all  beautiful  and  heartless  coquets  to  remotest  time.  At 
length,  just  above  St.  Goar,  the  black  and  naked  precipice  of  Lur- 
leiberg  rose  out  of  the  water  on  the  left,  frowning  in  savage  si- 
lence over  the  river.  Just  before  we  came  opposite  this  perpen- 
dicular rock,  the  boat  entered  a  rapid,  formed  by  the  immense 
rocks  in  the  bed  of  the  stream,  and  began  to  shoot  downward  like 
an  arrow  to  an  immense  whirlpool  in  front  of  the  Lurleiberg. 
The  river  here  striking  the  rocks,  and  dashing  back  towards  the 
opposite  side,  forms  a  whirlpool,  called  by  the  inhabitants  the 
Gewirr ;  into  the  furious  eddy  of  which  our  little  steamboat  dashed 
without  fear.  She  careened  a  little  one  side  as  she  passed  along 
the  slope  of  the  Wirbel,  probably  tipped  over  by  the  beautiful, 
though  evil-minded,  water  nymph — the  Circe  of  the  Rhine — which 
used  to  beguile  poor  ignorant  boatmen  by  her  ravishing  voice  into 
the  boiling  eddies,  where  she  deliberately  drowned  them.  Unable 
to  charm  the  steam-engine,  which  goes  snorting  in  the  most  unpo- 


SINGULAR  ECHO.  119 


etical  and  daring  manner  through  all  the  meshes  she  weaves  with 
her  whirlpool,  she  revenges  herself  by  putting  her  ivory  shoulder 
against  the  keel  of  the  boat  as  it  passes,  and  exerting  all  her 
strength  gives  it  a  slight  tip  over,  just  to  show  that  she  still  occupies 
her  realm. 

I  was  struck  here  with  one  of  those  exhibitions  of  the  love  of 
the  picturesque  and  beautiful  which  meets  the  traveller  at  almost 
every  step  on  the  Continent.  There  is  a  grotto  under  the  Lurlei- 
berg  where  the  echo  of  a  bugle  blast  or  pistol  shot  is  said  to  be 
repeated  fifteen  times.  As  we  approached  it,  I  heard  first  the  ex- 
plosion of  a  gun,  and  then  the  strains  of  a  bugle.  I  did  not  know 
at  first  what  it  meant,  and  was  much  amused  when  I  was  told,  on 
inquiring,  that  a  man  was  kept  stationed  there,  whose  sole  busi- 
ness was  to  fire  guns  and  blow  his  bugle  for  the  benefit  of  travel- 
lers. This  making  a  business  of  getting  up  echoes  looks  odd  to 
an  American.  A  man  thus  stationed  on  the  Hudson  to  rouse 
echoes  for  every  boat  that  passed,  would  have  a  great  many  jokes 
cracked  at  his  expense.  I  should  have  been  better  pleased  with 
this  arrangement,  however,  had  I  derived  any  benefit  from  it.  Be- 
tween the  crushi  g  sound  of  the  water,  as  it  swept  in  swift  circles 
around  the  boat,  and  the  churning  of  the  steam-engine,  I  did  not 
get  even  a  single  echo.  I  heard  only  the  explosion  of  the  gun, 
and  the  fitful,  uncertain  strains  of  the  bugle — the  echoes  the  steam- 
boat and  whirlpool  had  all  to  themselves. 

We  had  scarcely  passed  the  base  of  this  precipice  before  the 
ruins  of  the  fortress  of  Rheinfels  emerged  into  view.  This  is  the 
largest  ruin  on  the  river,  and  witnessed  bloody  work  in  olden 
times,  as  its  stern  lord  levied  duties  on  every  traveller  up  the 
Rhine.  It  was  the  impregnable  character  of  this  fortification 
which  helped  bring  about  the  Hanseatic  League.  It  was  blown 
up  by  the  revolutionary  army  of  France,  and  has  remained  a 
ruin  ever  since.  Next  comes  the  Thurmberg,  or  castle  of  the 
mouse,  a  ruin  in  a  more  perfect  state  of  preservation  than  any 
other  on  the  Rhine.  It  wants  only  the  wood- work  to  render  it 
entire.  A  little  lower  down  rises  the  old  convent  of  Bornhofen, 
and  the  twin  castles  of  Sternberg  and  Liebenstein,  presenting  a 
most  singular,  yet  charming,  feature  in  the  landscape.  Still 
farther  down,  and  lo,  the  noble  castle  of  Marksburg,  perched  on 


120  CASTLE  OF  STALZENFELS. 


the  top  of  a  cone-like  rock,  looking  silently  down  on  the  little 
village  of  Branbach,  at  the  base,  burst  on  my  sight.  This  old 
castle  stands  just  as  it  did  in  the  middle  ages,  with  all  its  secret, 
narrow  passages,  winding  staircases,  dungeons,  and  instruments 
of  torture,  preserved  through  the  slow  lapse  of  centuries.  The 
castle  of  Lahneck  comes  next,  and  last  of  all,  before  reaching 
Coblentz,  the  fine  old  castle  of  Stalzenfels.  It  stands  on  a  rock  in 
the  most  picturesque  position  imaginable.  It  had  lain  in  ruins 
since  the  French  destroyed  it,  nearly  two  hundred  years  ago ; 
but  the  town  of  Coblentz  having  presented  it  to  the  Crown  Prince 
of  Prussia,  he  is  slowly  repairing  it  after  the  ancient  model.  He 
devotes  an  annual  sum  to  the  repairs,  and  it  already  shows  what 
a  beautiful  structure  it  must  have  been  originally.  The  gift  on 
the  part  of  Coblentz  was  no  great  affair,  as  they  had  already 
offered  it  for  fifty-three  dollars,  and  could  find  nobody  to  buy  it  at 
that  price.  The  old  castles  on  the  Rhine  follow  the  laws  of  trade 
— the  price  always  corresponds  to  the  demand.  But  here  the 
castle-market  is  glutted,  and  hence  the  sales  are  light. 

One  cannot  easily  imagine  the  effect  of  these  turreted  ruins, 
suddenly  bursting  on  one  at  every  turn  of  the  river.  The  whole 
distance  from  Mayence  to  Coblentz  is  less  than  sixty  miles,  and 
yet  one  passes  all  these  old  castles  in  sailing  over  it.  But  these 
castles  are  not  all  that  charms  the  beholder.  There  are  ruined 
convents  and  churches — smiling  villages,  sweet  vineyards — bare 
precipices  and  garden-like  shores,  all  coming  arid  going  like  the 
objects  in  a  moving  diorama,  keeping  up  a  succession  of  sur- 
prises that  prevents  one  effectually  from  calling  up  the  associa- 
tions of  any  one  particular  scene. 


BONAPARTE  AND  THE  RUSSIANS.  121 


XXIIL 

THE  RHINE  FROM  COBIENTZ  TO  COLOGNE. 


CoBLENTz  is  one  of  the  most  picturesque  towns  we  have  ever 
seen.  Its  position  on  the  Rhine  seems  chosen  on  purpose  for 
effect.  One  of  the  most  interesting  objects  in  it  is  the  rock  and 
fortress  of  Ehrenbreitstein,  which  commands  a  glorious  view  of 
the  junction  of  the  Rhine  and  Mosel,  and  which,  from  its  impreg- 
nable position,  is  called  the  Gibraltar  of  the  Rhine.  It  will  hold 
a  garrison  of  14,000  men,  while  the  magazines  will  contain  pro- 
visions sufficient  to  maintain  eight  thousand  men  for  ten  years. 
The  escarped  rocks  on  three  sides  would  repel  almost  any  assault, 
and  the  fortress  can  easily  sustain  the  glorious  name  it  gained  in  the 
seventeenth  century,  when  assailed  in  vain  by  the  French  armies. 
The  name  signifies  *'  honour's  broadstone."  There  is  a  convent 
of  Jesuits  in  the  town,  with  such  ample  wine  cellars  that  a  stage 
coach  could  drive  around  in  them,  and  they  have  held  nearly  a 
half  a  million  of  bottles  of  wine.  In  the  public  square  is  a  foun- 
tain, erected  as  a  monument,  by  the  French,  in  1812,  on  which 
was  chiselled  an  inscription,  to  commemorate  their  invasion  of 
Russia.  A  few  months  after,  the  fragments  of  the  Grand  Army 
were  driven  over  the  Rhine.  Over  the  fallen  host  the  Russians 
had  marched  in  triumph,  and  pressing  fast  on  the  flying  traces  of 
Bonaparte,  entered  this  town  on  their  march  for  Paris.  The 
Russian  commander,  seeing  this  monument,  instead  of  having  it 
destroyed,  caused  to  be  cut  under  the  French  inscription,  "  Vu  et 
approuve  par  nous,  commandant  Russe,  de  la  ville  Coblence,  Jan- 
vier V,  1814.  This  is  rather  a  hard  hit  on  the  French,  and 
shows  that  St.  Priest  had  more  contempt  than  hate  in  his  compo- 
sition.    Here,  too,  sleeps  the  brave  and  noble  Marceau,  who  fell 


122  GRAVE  OF   MARCEAU.  V 

in  the  hotly  fought  battle  of  Altenkirchen.     Byron  expressed  the 
feelings  of  both  friends  and  foes  when  he  sung 

"  Brief,  brave  and  glorious  was  his  young  career — 
His  mourners  were  two  hosts,  his  friends  and  foes ; 
And  fitly  may  the  stranger  lingering  here 
Pray  for  his  gallant  spirit's  bright  repose. 
For  he  was  Freedom's  champion,  one  of  those, 
The  few  in  number,  who  had  not  o'erstept 
The  charter  to  chastise  which  she  bestows 
On  such  as  wield  her  weapons  ;  he  had  kept 
The  whiteness  of  his  soul,  and  thus  men  o'er  him  wept" 

We  had  scarcely  shoved  away  from  the  wharf  at  Coblentz 
before  castles,  which  seemed  to  have  dropped  down  the  river 
during  our  stop,  began  to  rise  along  the  shores.  The  Crane, 
built  nearly  three  hundred  years  ago,  and  just  below  it  the  Watch 
Tower  of  older  date,  round  below  and  eight-sided  above,  present 
a  most  picturesque  appearance.  Farther  down  rises  the  castle 
of  Rheineck,  with  the  castellated  building  beside  it  looking  like 
the  residence  of  some  old  feudal  chief,  in  the  heyday  of  his  pow- 
er. Farther  down  still,  after  the  Ahr  has  poured  its  silver  stream 
into  the  Rhine,  appear  the  black  precipices  of  Erpeler  Lei,  seven 
hundred  feet  high.  At  first  view  this  immense  basaltic  rock 
seems  perfectly  inaccessible,  but  the  vintager  has  converted  it 
into  a  vineyard.  In  the  crevices,  all  along  the  face  of  the  preci- 
pice, are  placed  baskets  filled  with  earth,  in  which  are  planted 
vines,  that  creep  up  and  cling  to  the  rock,  covering  it  with  ver- 
dure and  fruit.  Opposite  the  village  of  Unkel  is  another  basaltic 
rock,  rising  in  columns  from  the  water.  The  Rhine  raves  past  it 
as  if  conscious  that  the  long,  dull  sweep  of  the  Lowlands  was  be- 
low it,  and  it  must  foam  and  rave  while  it  could. 

The  Tower  of  Roland  comes  next,  and  after  it  the  ruins  of 
seven  castles,  on  seven  different  mountains,  the  remains  of  the 
castles  of  the  Archbishops  of  Cologne.  A  little  farther  on,  and 
lo,  the  Rhine  goes  in  one  broad  sweep  of  twenty  miles  to  Cologne, 
sparkling  under  the  summer  sky,  and  rejoicing  in  the  wealth  of 
villages  and  vineyards,  and  cultivated  fields  along  its  shores. 
The  view  here  is  glorious,  and  I  was  tempted  to  echo  the  shout  of 
the  Prussian  army;  "  The  Rhine  !  The  Rhine  !"     Up  the  river 


THE  SEVEN  HILLS.  1S3       4 


the  rocks  shut  in  the  prospect,  as  if  endeavouring  to  restrain  the 
Rhine,  and  look  savage  and  gloomy  upon  the  liberated  waters 
that  leap  away  without  farther  restraint,  for  the  open  country 
below.  Unlike  the  Hudson,  which  goes  in  one  broad  steady 
sweep  from  Albany  to  New  York,  the  Rhine  is  tortuous  and  un- 
steady; now  spreading  out  into  a  lake  filled  with  islands,  now 
smoothly  laving  the  richly  cultivated  banks,  and  now  dashing  on 
the  rocks  that  push  into  its  channel,  till  its  vexed  waters  boil  in 
frenzy — and  now  gliding  arrow-like  past  some  old  castle,  that 
seems  watching  its  movements.  The  natural  scenery  along  its 
course  is  greatly  inferior  to  that  of  the  Hudson,  but  the  accesso- 
ries of  vineyards,  and  villagefs,  and  convents,  and  churches,  and 
castles,  and  towers,  and  the  associations  around  them,  all  make  the 
passage  up  or  down  it  one  of  the  most  interesting  in  the  world, 
in  the  beauty  and  variety  it  presents. 

The  seven  hills,  "  Siehengehirge,**  I  mentioned  above,  are  the 
lower  terminations  of  the  grand  scenery  on  the  Rhine.  These 
"  seven  hills  "  (there  are  more  than  seven),  crowned  with  their 
ruined  castles,  form  a  scene  that  can  scarcely  be  surpassed. 
They  have  all  been  thrown  up  by  some  volcano,  that  lived,  and 
worked,  and  died  here,  before  man  had  a  written  history  ;  and 
rise  in  magnificent  proportions  along  the  banks  of  the  rushing 
river.  The  Lowenberg,  1414  feet  high ;  the  Wolkenberg,  1067  ; 
the  Drachenfels  (dragon's  rock),  1056 ;  the  Oelberg,  1473  ;  the 
Niederstromberg,  1066  ;  and  the  Stromberg,  1053  feet  in  height, 
surmounted  by  ruined  battlements,  towers,  (fee,  are  a  glorious 
brotherhood,  and  worthy  of  the  Rhine,  on  which  they  look.  I 
will  not  give  the  traditions  connected  with  many  of  these,  nor 
add  the  particular  descriptions  and  aspect  of  each.  The  impres- 
sion they  make  on  one  he  carries  with  him  through  life.  Espe- 
cially does  an  American,  whose  eye  has  roamed  over  primeval 
forests,  broad  rivers,  and  lofty  mountains ;  left  just  as  the  hand  of 
nature  formed  them,  gaze  with  curious  feelings  on  this  blending 
of  precipices,  and  castles,  and  mountains,  and  ruins,  together. 
Nature  looks  old  in  such  connection — a  sort  of  bondslave  to  man, 
bereft  of  her  pride  and  freedom,  and  robbed  of  her  freshness  and 
life. 

Drachenfels  rises  almost  perpendicularly  to  the  view  from  the 


124  DRACHENFELS. 


river  shore,  with  a  cap  of  ruins  on  its  lofty  head.  Byron  has  im- 
mortalized this  rock  in  language  so  sweet  that  I  risk  the  complaint 
of  quoting  too  much,  and  give  the  three  following  beautiful  verses. 

The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels 
Frown  o'er  the  wide  and  winding  Bhine, 
Whose  breast  of  waters  broadly  swells 
Between  the  banks  which  bear  the  vine, 
And  hills  all  rich  with  blossom'd  trees, 
And  fields  which  promise  corn  and  wine, 
And  scattered  cities  crowning  these, 
Whose  far  white  walls  along  them  shine, 
Have  strewed  a  scene  which  I  could  see 
With  double  joy  wert  thou  with  me. 

And  peasant  girls  with  deep  blue  eyes. 

And  hands  which  offer  early  flowers, 

Walk  smiling  o'er  this  paradise  ; 

Above,  the  frequent  feudal  towers 

Through  green  leaves  lift  their  walls  of  grey. 

And  many  a  rock  which  steeply  towers. 

And  noble  arch  in  proud  decay. 

Look  o'er  this  vale  of  vintage-bowers ; 

But  one  thing  want  these  banks  of  Rhine, — 

Thy  gentle  hand  to  clasp  in  mine ! 

The  river  nobly  foams  and  flows. 

The  charm  of  this  enchanted  ground, 

And  all  its  thousand  turns  disclose 

Some  fresher  beauty  varying  round, 

The  haughtiest  breast  its  wish  might  bound 

Through  life  to  dwell  delighted  here ; 

Nor  could  on  earth  a  spot  be  found 

To  nature  and  to  me  so  dear, 

Could  thy  dear  eyes  in  following  mine 

Still  sweeten  more  these  banks  of  Rhine." 

Passing  Bonn,  with  its  University,  Cathedral,  &c.,  rapidly  as 
steam  and  the  downward  current  together  could  bear  us,  we  were 
soon  under  the  white  walls  of  Cologne.  Here  I  lost  sight  of 
two  fellow  travellers  that  had  added  much  to  my  pleasure 
down  the  Rhine.  It  had  so  happened  that  we  wished  to  stop  at 
the  same  places,  and  had  thus  kept  company  from  Frankfort  to 


FRENCH  LADIES.  125 


Cologne.  They  were  two  ladies  that  had  attracted  my  attention 
when  they  got  on  board  at  Mayence.  One  was  an  elderly  lady, 
and  the  other  young  and  beautiful. 

Sitting  near  them  soon  after  we  started,  the  elderly  lady  ad- 
dressed some  inquiry  to  me  respecting  the  boat,  which  I  answered 
in  the  fewest  words  possible,  for  I  perceived  they  were  French, 
and  I  was  nervous  about  speaking  to  them  in  their  own  language. 

As  the  day  advanced  I  was  struck  with  the  familiarity  exhib- 
ited by  the  passengers.  A  gentleman  would  address  a  lady  be- 
side him,  a  perfect  stranger,  with  some  remark  about  the  scenery, 
which  she  answered  with  the  utmost  cheerfulness,  and  there  was 
that  general  freedom  from  restraint;  and  that  confidence  in  each 
Other's  polite  behaviour,  the  reverse  of  which  makes  our  steamboat 
travelling  like  an  assemblage  of  pickpockets,  unacquainted  with 
each  other,  and  suspicious  of  each  other's  designs. 

Seeing,  not  long  after,  a  copy  of  one  of  Dickens's  works  in  the 
younger  lady's  hand,  I  presumed  to  address  her  in  English,  which, 
to  my  delight,  she  spoke  almost  like  an  Englishwoman.  There  was 
an  ease  and  grace  in  her  manners,  and  her  remarks  were  character- 
ized by  an  intelligence  and  a  knowledge  of  the  world,  that  rendered 
her  one  of  the  most  attractive  persons  I  ever  met.  She  was  glad, 
she  said,  to  converse  in  English,  and  I  was  glad  to  have  her.  I 
was  a  stranger  and  alone,  and  hence  felt  more  deeply  her  kind- 
ness in  thus  conversing  with  me  hour  after  hour.  An  American 
lady  might  think  this  vastly  improper  and  forward,  but  /  shall  re- 
member her  with  grateful  feelings  as  long  as  I  remember  the 
Rhine. 

She,  with  the  elderly  lady  her  companion,  were  to  ascend  the 
Rhine  in  their  carriage,  which  they  had  aboard  from  Cologne, 
so  as  to  get  all  the  beauties  of  the  scenery. 


126  COLOGNE  CATHEDRAL. 


XXIV. 

RfflNE  WINES,  COLOGNE  CATHEDRAL,  LOU- 
VAIN,   BRUSSELS. 


I  HAD  designed  to  give  a  chapter  on  Rhine  wines,  and  the  vine- 
yards of  the  Rhine,  but  will  pass  them  over,  referring  only  to 
Prince  Metternich's  celebrated  vineyard,  just  above  Geissenheim, 
between  Mayence  and  Coblentz.  The  monks  formerly  possessed 
this  extensive  vineyard,  covering  fifty-five  acres.  The  Prince  of 
Orange  owned  it  next,  and  held  it  till  it  fell  into  Bonaparte's 
hand,  who  gave  it  to  Marshal  Kellerman,  in  reward  for  his  ser- 
vices. At  the  close  of  Napoleon's  career,  it  reverted  to  the  Em- 
peror of  Austria,  who  made  a  present  of  it  to  Metternich,  the  pres- 
ent owner.  He  has  repaired  it,  and  the  Chateau  of  Johannesberg 
is  now  a  very  conspicuous  object  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhine.  The 
vineyard  yields  about  forty  butts  of  wine  per  annum,  and  it  is 
called  the  best  of  the  Rhenish  wines. 

Cologne,  independent  of  its  sights,  is  an  object  of  interest,  from 
the  part  it  played  in  Roman  history.  A  camp  pitched  here  by 
Marcus  Agrippa,  was  the  first  commencement  of  the  city.  Vitelli- 
us  and  Sylvanus  were  proclaimed  emperors  of  Rome  here,  and 
here  also  Agrippina,  the  mother  of  Nero,  was  born.  It  retains, 
to  this  day,  many  of  the  peculiar  customs  of  Italy,  and  is  the  only 
city  in  the  north  of  Europe  where  the  Carnival  is  celebrated.  1 
will  not  speak  of  the  paintings  it  contains,  or  of  the  architecture  of 
the  churches.  The  Cathedral,  however,  I  will  mention  in  passing. 
This  magnificent  building  was  begun  six  hundred  years  ago,  and 
still  remains  not  half  completed.  It  is  of  Gothic  architecture,  and 
had  it  been  finished,  would  have  been  one  of  the  finest  edifices  in 
the  world.     It  was  to  have  two  towers,  each  five  hundred  feet,  but 


DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  CHOIR.  127 

they  remain  unfinished,  and  probably  will  to  the  end  of  time. 
The  two  things  that  interested  me  most  were,  the  "  Shrine  of  the 
three  Kings  of  Cologne,"  and  the  Choir.  The  former  is  in  a 
small  chapel  just  behind  the  main  altar,  and  is  said  to  contain  the 
hones  of  the  three  Magi  who  came  from  the  East  to  lay  their  offer- 
ings at  the  feet  of  the  infant  Saviour.  The  names  of  these  three 
wise  men,  the  chronicle  states,  were  Gaspar,  Melchior,  and  Bal- 
thasery  and,  to  prevent  the  possibility  of  a  doubt,  these  names  are 
written  in  rubies  on  their  oum  skulls.  This  shrine,  with  its  gold 
and  silver  and  precious  stones,  is  said  to  be  worth  over  a  million 
of  dollars,  although  bereft  of  some  of  its  choicest  gems  during  the 
French  Revolution. 

The  choir  is  the  only  part  of  the  church  completely  finished, 
and  shows  by  its  magnificence  and  splendour  the  extravagant  de- 
signs of  the  first  builders.  I  have  never  seen  any  thing  more 
grand  in  its  general  plan  and  construction,  and  yet  so  exquisitely 
beautiful  in  its  details,  than  this  choir.  I  cannot  give  a  better  de- 
scription of  it  than  in  the  language  of  an  English  traveller.  "  The 
choir  is  the  only  part  finished  ;  one  hundred  and  eighty  feet  high^ 
and  internally,  from  its  size,  height,  and  disposition  of  pillars, 
arches,  chapels,  and  beautifully  coloured  windows,  resembling  a 
splendid  vision.  Externally,  its  double  range  of  stupendous  flying 
buttresses,  and  intervening  piers,  bristling  with  a  forest  of  purflled 
pinnacles,  strike  the  beholder  with  awe  and  astonishment."  Long 
before  reaching  Cologne,  the  highest  tower  of  the  church  is  visible, 
with  a  huge  crane  swinging  from  its  unfinished  top,  where  it  has 
hung  for  centuries.  Some  time  since  it  was  taken  down  by  Jhe 
city  authorities,  but  a  terrible  thunder-storm  which  swept  over 
the  place  soon  after,  was  believed  by  the  frightened  inhabitants  to 
be  in  consequence  of  their  wickedness  in  removing  this  crane.  It 
was  saying  to  the  world,  "  we  never  intend  to  finish  this  church," 
a  declaration  which  set  the  elements  in  such  commotion,  that  soon 
after  an  awful  black  thunder-cloud  began  to  show  itself  over  the 
trembling  city.  The  lightning  crossed  its  fiery  lances  over  head, 
and  the  redoubled  thunder  shook  the  very  foundations  on  which 
the  city  stood.  As  soon,  therefore,  as  it  was  over,  and  to  prevent 
another  similar,  more  awful  visitation,  the  inhabitants  began  to 
hoist  this  enormous  crane  to  its  place  on  the  top  of  the  tower.     I 


128  BONES  OF   ELEVEN  THOUSAND  VIRGINS. 

could  not  but  laugh,  as  I  saw  its  black  outline  against  the  sky,  at 
the  folly  that  had  replaced  it  there.  It  was  the  most  deliberate 
humbug  practised  on  a  large  scale  I  had  ever  seen.  It  was  like 
the  Irishman  vowing  a  hundred  candles  to  the  Virgin  Mary,  if  she 
would  save  him  from  shipwreck,  when  the  vessel  was  breaking  to 
pieces  under  him.  Said  his  companion  to  him,  "  Why  do  you  lie, 
for  you  know  you  can't  get  them  ?"  "  Never  mind,"  he  replied^ 
*•  keep  still,  the  Virgin  don't  know  it."  The  Cologne  people  have 
acted  like  the  Irishman  in  this  respect — they  have  no  idea  of  fin- 
ishing the  church,  though  a  hundred  thunder-storms  should  sweep 
over  the  city ;  but  they  seem  to  think  that  if  the  crane  is  up  ready 
for  hoisting  stone,  the  Deity  will  not  know  it.  If  they  only  look 
grave,  say  nothing,  and  keep  the  crane  swinging,  they  imagine 
the  blessed  Virgin  will  believe  they  design  to  commence  building 
soon. 

Cologne  is  not  so  dirty  as  Coleridge  makes  it  out  to  be,  though 
it  is  a  very  disagreeable  town  to  get  around  in.  I  will  mention 
but  one  thing  more  in  it — the  Church  of  St.  Ursula.  It  stands 
just  without  the  walls,  and  is  remarkable  only  for  containing  the 
bones  and  skulls  of  eleven  thousand  virgins,  all  slain  in  one  great 
massacre.  This  is  a  large  allowance  even  for  a  Roman  Catholic 
tradition,  which  does  not  generally  stick  at  improbabilities.  It 
seems  this  St.  Ursula,  of  blessed  memory,  in  carrying  her  un- 
usual quantity  of  virgins  from  Britain  to  Armorica,was  driven  by 
tempests  up  the  Rhine  to  Cologne,  where  the  Huns,  in  their  bar- 
barian fury,  slew  them  all,  because  they  would  not  yield  to  their 
lusts.  To  say  nothing  of  this  singularly  large  fleet  of  virgins,  it 
is  very  curious  they  should  be  driven,  by  a  week  or  more  of  tem- 
pests, through  the  Lowlands,  up  the  Rhine  to  Cologne,  without 
having  once  got  aground  or  sent  high  and  dry  ashore.  I  will 
not,  however,  dispute  the  legend,  especially  as  I  saw  several  ter- 
races of-the  bones  themselves,  or  at  least  of  verilalle  bones,  ranged 
round  the  church  between  the  walls.  The  skull  of  St.  Ursula, 
with  a  few  select  skulls,  probably  belonging  to  her  body-guard, 
have  a  separate  apartment,  called  the  Golden  Chamber,  and  are 
encased  in  silver.  But,  seriously,  I  cannot  divine  what  first  in- 
duced this  grand  collection  of  skeletons,  and  their  peculiar  ar- 
rangement for  public  exhibition.     It  looks  as  if  some  battle-field 


AN  IGNORANT  ENGLISHMAN.  '^ 

had  been  robbed  of  its  slain  in  order  to  furnish  this  cabinet  of  hide- 
ous relics. 

I  went  by  rail-road  from  Cologne  to  Aix  la  Chapelle  (forty, 
three  miles),  and  stopping  there  only  long  enough  to  get  break- 
fast, found  no  time  to  see  the  town.  The  rail-road  is  not  yet 
finished  from  it  to  Liege,  and  travellers  are  compelled  to  go  by 
diligence.  The  distance  is  about  twenty-six  miles ;  and  having 
an  unconquerable  dislike  to  diligence  travelling,  I  determined  to 
hire  a  carriage.  An  English  gentleman,  standing  at  the  door  as 
I  was  inquiring  about  the  terms,  &;c.,  said  he  should  like  to  take  a 
carriage  with  me.  I  gladly  accepted  his  proposal,  and  we  started 
off  in  company.  I  mention  this  incident  to  illustrate  an  English- 
man's ignorance  of  the  United  States.  I  had  heard  some  of  our 
most  distinguished  writers,  male  and  female,  speak  of  it  in  their 
Encounters  with  the  English  in  their  own  country,  but  had  never 
met  any  marked  case  of  it  myself.  But  this  man,  who  spent 
every  summer  on  the  Continent,  knew  no  more  of  the  American 
Republic  than  an  idiot.  Among  other  things  illustrating  his  ig- 
norance, in  reply  to  my  statement  that  I  was  from  New  York,  he 
said,  "  New  York — let  me  see — does  that  belong  to  the  Canadas 
yet  r"  I  told  him  I  believed  not ;  that  it  was  my  impression  it 
had  been  separated  from  it  for  some  time.  "  Ah !"  said  he,  and 
that  ended  his  inquiries  on  that  point.  It  was  equal  to  the  re- 
mark of  an  English  literary  lady  once  to  one  of  my  own  distin- 
guished countrywomen.  In  speaking  of  the  favourable  features 
of  the  United  States,  she  remarked  very  naively,  that  she  should 
think  the  climate  would  be  very  cool  in  summer,  from  the  wind 
blowing  over  the  Cordilleras  mountains  f 

The  view  of  Liege,  from  the  heights,  as  we  began  to  descend 
into  the  valley,  was  quite  a  novel  one  for  the  Continent.  The 
long  chimneys  of  the  numerous  manufactories  reminded  me  of 
the  activity  and  enterprise  of  my  own  land.  I  did  not  go  over 
the  town,  but  took  the  rail-road  for  Louvain,  on  my  way  to  Brus- 
sels. I  just  gave  one  thought  to  Quintin  Durward  and  the  "  Wild 
Boar  of  Ardennes,"  and  we  were  away  with  the  speed  of  the  wind. 
I  stopped  at  Louvain  solely  to  visit  the  beautiful  Gothic  building 
of  the  Hotel  de  Ville.  It  is  said  to  be  the  most  beautiful  Gothic 
edifice  in  the  world.     The  whole  exterior,  in  almost  every  foot  of 

10 


130  PARK  OF  BRUSSELS. 

it,  is  elaborately  wrought.  Bassi  relievi  cover  it — many  of  them 
representing  sins  and  their  punishments.  The  stone  of  which  it 
is  composed  is  soft  when  first  quarried,  and  hence  is  easily  worked, 
but  it  hardens  by  exposure  to  the  air. 

The  next  morning  I  started  for  Brussels.  There  is  an  airiness 
^nd  cheerfulness  about  this  city  that  pleased  me  exceedingly,  and 
I  should  think  a  residence  in  it,  for  a  part  of  the  year,  would  be 
delightful.  The  impression  I  got  of  it,  however,  may  be  owing  to 
the  position  of  the  hotel  at  which  I  stopped.  Situated  on  an  emi- 
nence  near  the  park,  the  traveller  may  be  in  a  few  moments 
strolling  through  beautiful  grounds,  thronged  with  promenaders  as 
gay  as  those  of  the  Champs  Elysee  and  the  Tuileries. 


WATERLOO.  131 


XXV. 

BATTLE-FIELD  OF  WATERLOO, 


The  sky  was  darkly  overcast,  and  not  a  breath  of  air  disturbed 
the  ominous  hush  of  the  atmosphere,  which  always  precedes  a 
rain,  as  we  started  for  the  greatest  battle-field  of  Europe.  My 
companions  were  an  American ;  and  an  English  cavalry  captain, 
just  returned  from  the  Indies.  We  had  been  shown  before  the 
house  in  which  the  ball  was  held  the  night  before  the  battle.  I 
could  imagine  the  sudden  check  to  the  "  sound  of  revelry,"  when 
over  the  exciting  notes  of  the  viol  came  the  dull  booming  of  can- 
non, striking  on  the  youthful  heart  "  like  a  rising  knell." 

"  Ah  !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Bhished  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness ; 
And  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated." 

We  followed  the  route  taken  by  Wellington  and  his  suite  from 
Brussels,  and  trotting  through  the  forest  of  Soignies,  which  Byron, 
by  poetical  license,  has  called  the  forest  of  Ardennes ;  came  upon 
the  little  hamlet  of  Waterloo,  situated  a  short  distance  from  the 
field  of  battle.  Our  guide  was  a  man  who  lived  in  the  village  at 
the  time  of  the  battle,  and  had  been  familiar  with  all  its  local- 
ities for  years. 

I  have  trod  many  battle-fields  of  ancient  and  modern  glory,  but 
never  one  with  the  strange  feelings  with  which  I  wandered  over 
this,  for  here  the  star  of  Bonaparte  set  forever.    To  understand  the 


132  NIGHT  BEFORE  THE  BATTLE. 

description,  imagine  two  slightly  elevated  semicircular  ridges,  or, 
as  they  might  more  properly  be  termed,  slopes,  curving  gently 
towards  each  other  like  a  parenthesis,  and  you  have  the  position 
of  the  two  armies.  On  the  summit  of  one  of  these  slopes  was  ar- 
rayed the  French  army,  and  on  the  other  the  English.  The  night 
of  the  17th  of  June  was  dark  and  stormy.  The  rain  fell  in  tor-. 
rents,  and  the  two  armies  lay  down  in  the  tall  rye  drenched  with 
rain  to  wait  the  morning  that  was  to  decide  the  fate  of  Europe 
and  of  Napoleon.  From  the  ball-room  at  Brussels  many  an  of- 
ficer had  been  summoned  in  haste  to  the  field,  and  shivering  and 
cold,  was  compelled  to  pass  the  night  in  mud  and  rain  in  his  ele- 
gant attire.  The  artillery  had  cut  up  the  ground  so  that  the  mud 
was  shoe  deep,  while  the  tall  rye  lay  crushed  and  matted  beneath 
the  feet  of  the  soldiers.  The  morning  of  the  18th  opened  with  a 
drizzling  rain,  and  the  two  armies,  benumbed  with  cold  and  soak- 
ing wet,  rose  from  their  damp  beds  to  the  contest.  Eighty  thou- 
sand French  soldiers  were  seen  moving  in  magnificent  array  on 
the  crest  of  the  ridge,  as  they  took  their  several  positions  for  the 
day.  Upward  of  seventy  thousand  of  the  allied  forces  occu- 
pied the  ridge  or  eminences  opposite  them, — formed  mostly  into 
squares. 

In  a  moment  the  battle  was  all  before  me.  I  could  almost  see 
Bonaparte  as,  after  having  disposed  his  forces,  and  flushed  with 
hope,  he  gaily  exclaimed  to  his  suite,  "  now  to  breakfast,''  and 
galloped  away.  The  shout  of  "  Vive  I'Empereur"  that  followed 
shook  the  very  field  on  which  they  stood,  and  seemed  ominous 
of  disaster  to  the  allied  army.  Two  hundred  and  sixty-two  can- 
non lined  the  ridge  like  a  wall  of  death  before  the  French,  while 
Wellington  had  but  one  hundred  and  eighty-six  to  oppose  them. 
At  eleven-  the  firing  commenced,  and  immediately  Jerome  Bona- 
parte led  a  column  of  six  thousand  men  down  on  Hougoumont,  an 
old  chateau  which  defended  Wellington's  right,  and  was  good  as 
a  fort.  Advancing  in  the  face  of  the  most  destructive  fire  that  gal- 
lant column  pushed  up  to  the  very  walls  of  the  chateau,  and  thrust 
their  bayonets  through  the  door.  But  it  was  all  in  vain  ;  and 
though  the  building  was  set  on  fire  and  consumed,  and  the  roar- 
ing of  the  flames  was  mingled  with  the  shrieks  of  the  wounded 
that  were  perishing  in  it,  the  rage  of  the  combatants  only  increas- 


COMMENCEMENT  OF  THE  BATTLE.  133 

ed.  But  the  Coldstream  Guards  held  the  court-yard  with  invin- 
cible obstinacy,  and  Jerome  Bonaparte  was  compelled  to  retire,  af- 
ter leaving  1,400  men  in  a  little  orchard  beside  the  walls,  where 
it  does  not  seem  so  many  men  could  be  laid.  In  a  short  time  the 
battle  became  general  along  the  whole  lines,  and  prodigies  of 
valour  were  performed  on  every  rod  of  the  ensanguined  field. 
The  heavy  French  cavalry  came  thundering  down  on  the  steady 
English  squares,  that  had  already  been  wasted  by  the  destructive 
artillery,  and  strove  with  almost  superhuman  energy  to  break  them. 
Driven  to  desperation  by  their  repeatedly  foiled, attempts,  they  at 
length  stopped  their  horses  and  coolly  walked  them  round  and 
round  the  squares,  and  wherever  a  man  fell  dashed  in,  in  vain  val- 
our. Wherever  one  of  those  rock-fast  squares  began  to  waver, 
Wellington  threw  himself  into  its  centre,  and  it  again  became 
immoveable  as  a  mountain.  With  their  gallant  chief  in  their 
keeping  those  brave  British  hearts  could  not  yield.  Whole  col- 
umns went  down  like  frost-work  before  the  headlong  charges  of 
cavalry  and  infantry.  In  the  centre  the  conflict  at  length  be- 
came awful,  for  there  the  crisis  of  the  battle  was  fixed.  Welling- 
ton stood  under  a  tree  while  the  boughs  were  crashing  with  the 
cannon  shot  over  head,  and  nearly  his  whole  guard  smitten  down 
by  his  side,  anxiously  watching  the  progress  of  the  fight.  His 
brave  squares,  torn  into  fragments  by  bombs  and  ricochet  shot, 
still  refused  to  yield  one  foot  of  ground.  Napoleon  rode  through 
his  ranks,  cheering  on  the  exhausted  columns  of  infantry  and 
cavalry,  that  rent  the  heavens  with  the  shout  of  "  Vive  VEmpe- 
reuTf'*  and  dashed  with  unparalleled  recklessness  on  the  bayonets 
of  the  English. 

The  hero  of  Wagram,  and  Borodino,  and  Austerlitz,  and 
Marengo,  and  Jena,  enraged  at  the  stubborn  obstinacy  of  the 
British,  rages  over  the  field,  and  is  still  sure  of  victory.  Welling- 
ton, seeing  that  he  cannot  much  longer  sustain  the  desperate 
charges  of  the  French  battalions,  wipes  the  sweat  from  his  anx- 
ious forehead  and  exclaims,  "  Oh,  that  Blucher  or  night  would 
come."  Thus  from  eleven  till  four  did  the  battle  rage  with  san- 
guinary ferocity,  and  still  around  the  centre  it  grew  more  awful 
every  moment.  The  mangled  cavalry  staggered  up  to  the  ex- 
hausted British  squares,  which,  though  diminished  and  bleeding 


134  ARRIVAL  OF  BLUCHER. 

in  every  part,  seemed  rooted  to  the  ground  they  stood  upon.  The 
heroic  Picton  had  fallen  at  the  head  of  his  brigade,  while  his  sword 
was  flashing  over  his  head.  Ponsonby  had  gone  down  on  the 
hard  fought  field,  and  terror  and  slaughter  were  on  every  side. 
The  most  enthusiastic  courage  had  driven  on  the  French  troops, 
which  the  rock- fast  resolution  of  British  tenacity  alone  could 
resist.  The  charge  of  the  French  cavalry  on  the  centre  was 
awful.  Disregarding  the  close  and  murderous  fire  of  the  British 
batteries,  they  rode  steadily  forward  till  they  came  to  the  bayonet's 
point.  Prodigies  of  valour  were  wrought,  and  heroes  fell  at 
every  discharge.  Bonaparte's  star  now  blazed  forth  in  its  an- 
cient splendour,  and  now  trembled  in  the  zenith.  The  shadows 
of  fugitive  kings  flitted  through  the  smoke  of  battle,  and  thrones 
tottered  on  the  ensanguined  field.  At  length  a  dark  object  was 
seen  to  emerge  from  the  distant  wood,  and  soon  an  army  of  30,000 
men  deployed  into  the  field,  and  began  to  march  straight  for  the 
scene  of  conflict.  Blucher  and  his  Prussians  came,  but  no 
Grouchy,  who  had  been  left  to  hold  him  in  check,  followed  after. 
In  a  moment  Napoleon  saw  that  he  could  not  sustain  the  charge 
of  so  many  fresh  troops,  if  once  allowed  to  form  a  junction  with 
the  allied  forces,  and  so  he  determined  to  stake  his  fate  on  one 
bold  cast,  and  endeavour  to  pierce  the  allied  centre  with  one  grand 
charge  of  the  Old  Guard,  and  thus  throw  himself  between  the 
two  armies,  and  fight  them  separately.  For  this  purpose  the 
Imperial  Guard  was  called  up,  which  had  remained  inactive 
during  the  whole  day,  and  divided  into  two  immense  columns, 
which  were  to  meet  at  the  British  centre.  That  under  Reille 
no  sooner  entered  the  fire  than  it  disappeared  like  frost-work. 
The  other  was  placed  under  Ney,  the  "  bravest  of  the  brave," 
and  the  most  irresistible  of  all  Napoleon's  Marshals.  Napoleon 
accompanied  them  part  way  down  the  slope,  and  halting  for  a 
moment  in  a  hollow,  addressed  them  in  his  fiery,  impetuous  man- 
ner. He  told  them  the  battle  rested  with  them.  "  Vive  VEm- 
pereur"  answered  him  with  a  shout  that  was  heard  all  over  the 
field  of  battle.  Ney  then  placed  himself  at  their  head,  and  began 
to  move  down  the  slope  and  over  the  field.  No  drum  or  trumpet 
or  martial  strain  cheered  them  on.  They  needed  nothing  to  fire 
their  steady  courage.     The  eyes  of  the  world  were  on  them,  and 


LAST  CHARGE  OF  THE  OLD  GUARD.  135 

the  fate  of  Europe  in  their  hands.  The  muffled  tread  of  that 
magnificent  legion  alone  was  heard.  For  a  moment  the  firing 
ceased  along  the  British  lines.  The  terror  of  Europe  was  on  the 
march,  and  the  last  awful  charge  of  the  Imperial  Guard,  which  had 
never  yet  failed,  was  about  to  be  made.  The  crisis  had  come, 
the  hour  of  destiny  arrived,  and  Napoleon  saw,  with  anxious  eye, 
his  Empire  carried  by  that  awful  column  as  it  disappeared  in  the 
smoke  of  battle.  The  firing  ceased  only  for  an  instant ;  the  next 
moment  the  artillery  opened,  and  that  dense  array  was  rent  as  if 
a  hurricane  had  passed  through  it.  Ney's  horse  sunk  under 
him,  and  he  mounted  another  and  cheered  on  his  men.  Without 
wavering  or  halting  that  band  of  heroes  closed  up  their  shattered 
ranks,  and  moved  on  in  the  face  of  the  most  wasting  fire  that  ever 
swept  a  field  of  battle.  Again  and  again  did  Ney's  horse  sink 
under  him,  till  five  had  fallen,  and  then  on  foot,  with  his  drawn 
sabre  in  his  hand,  he  marched  at  the  head  of  his  column.  On, 
on,  like  the  inrolling  tide  of  the  sea,  that  dauntless  Guard  pressed 
up  to  the  very  mouth  of  the  cannon,  and  taking  their  fiery  load 
full  in  their  bosoms — walked  over  artillery,  cannoniers  and  all, 
and  pushed  on  through  the  British  lines  till  they  came  within  a 
few  feet  of  where  Wellington  stood.  The  day  seemed  lost  to  the 
allies,  when  a  rank  of  men,  who  had  lain  flat  on  their  faces  behind 
a  low  ridge  of  earth,  and  hitherto  unseen  by  the  French,  heard 
the  order  of  Wellington,  "  up  and  at  'em !"  and  springing  to  their 
feet,  poured  an  unexpected  volley  into  the  very  faces  of  that 
advancing  Guard.  Taken  by  surprise,  and  smitten  back  by  the 
sudden  shock,  they  had  not  time  to  rally  before  another  and  an- 
other volley  completed  the  disorder,  and  that  hitherto  unconquer- 
able  Guard  was  hurrying  in  wild  confusion  over  the  field.  "  The 
Guard  recoils  !"  "  the  Guard  recoils  !"  rung  in  despairing  shrieks 
over  the  army,  and  all  was  over.  Blucher  efiected  his  junction, 
and  Wellington  ordered  a  simultaneous  advance  along  the  whole 
lines.  The  Old  Guard,  disdaining  to  fly,  formed  into  two  immense 
squares,  and  attempted  to  stay  the  reversed  tide  of  battle.  They 
stood  and  let  the  artillery  plough  through  them  in  vain.  The 
day  was  lost.  Bonaparte's  star  had  set  forever,  and  his  empire 
crumbled  beneath  him. 

Wellington  met  Blucher  at  La  Belle  Alliance,  the  head-quar- 


136  NIGHT  AFTER  THE  BATTLE. 

ters  of  Napoleon.  The  former  returned  back  over  the  field,  while 
the  latter  continued  the  pursuit  all  night  long,  strewing  the  road 
for  thirty  miles  with  mangled  corpses. 

And  I  was  standing  on  this  awful  field,  waving  with  grain  just 
as  it  did  on  that  mild  morning.  As  my  eye  rested  on  this  and 
that  spot,  where  deeds  of  valour  were  done,  and  saw  in  imagina- 
tion those  magnificent  armies  struggling  for  a  continent,  and  heard 
the  roar  of  cannon,  the  shocks  of  cavalry  and  the  rolling  fire  of 
infantry,  and  saw  the  waving  of  plumes  and  torn  banners  amid 
the  smoke  of  battle  that  curtained  them  in ;  what  wonder  is  it  that 
for  the  moment  I  forgot  the  carnage  and  the  awful  waste  of  hu- 
man life  in  the  excitement  and  grandeur  of  the  scene  ?  But  let 
him  who  is  in  love  with  glory  go  over  the  bloody  field  after  the 
thunder  of  battle  is  hushed,  and  the  excitement  of  the  strife  is  over. 
The  rain  is  past,  the  heavy  clouds  have  melted  away,  and  behold 
the  bright  and  tranquil  moon  is  sailing  through  the  starry  heavens 
and  looking  serenely  down  on  the  bloody  field.  Under  its  re- 
proving light  you  see  flashing  swords,  and  glittering  uniforms, 
and  torn  plumes,  and  heaps  of  mangled  men.  More  than  50,000 
cumber  the  field,  while  thousands  of  wounded  horses,  still  alive, 
rend  the  air  with  their  shrill  cries  ;  and  at  intervals  break  in  the 
mingled  curse  and  groan  and  prayer  of  the  tens  of  thousands  that 
are  writhing  amid  the  slaughtered  heaps  in  mortal  agony.  Dis- 
membered limbs  are  scattered  round  like  broken  branches  after  a 
hurricane,  while  disembowelled  corpses  lie  like  autumn  leaves  on 
every  side.  Ghastly  wounds  greet  the  eye  at  every  turn,  while 
ever  and  anon  comes  the  thunder  of  distant  cannon  on  the  night 
air,  telling  where  Blucher  still  continues  the  work  of  destruction. 

And  the  bright  round  moon  is  shining  down  on  all  this,  and  the 
sweet  air  of  June  is  breathing  over  it.  Oh  !  what  a  scene  for 
God  and  angels  to  look  upon !  What  a  blot  on  Nature's  pure 
bosom  !  Even  Wellington,  as  he  slowly  rode  over  the  field  by 
moonlight,  wept.  The  heart  trained  in  the  camp  and  schooled  in 
the  brutal  life  of  the  soldier  could  not  endure  the  sight.  But  this 
is  not  all.  Mournful  as  is  the  spectacle,  and  terrific  as  is  the 
ghastly  sight  of  that  dead  and  dying  army,  and  heartrending  as 
are  the  shrieks  and  groans  and  blasphemies  that  make  night  hor- 
rible, the  field  is  alive  with  moving  forms,  stooping  over  the  pros- 


MONUMENTS  OF  THE  DEAD.  137 

trate  dead.  Are  they  ministers  of  mercy  come  hither  to  bind  up 
the  wounded  and  assuage  their  sufferings,  or  are  they  beasts  of 
prey  stooping  over  the  carcasses  still  warm  with  human  blood  ? 
Neither.  They  are  men  roaming  the  field  for  plunder.  The 
dead  and  the  wounded  are  alike  ruthlessly  trampled  upon,  as 
their  bloody  garments  are  rifled  of  their  treasures.  And  this  is 
glorious  war,  where  heroes  are  made  and  deified  !  As  my  im- 
agination rested  on  this  picture,  I  no  longer  felt  sympathy  for  Na- 
poleon, as  he  fled  a  fugitive  through  the  long  night;  while  the  roar 
of  cannon  behind  him  told  where  his  empire  lay  trampjed  to  the 
earth. 

But  the  suffering  did  not  end  here.  To  measure  the  amount 
of  woe  this  one  battle  has  produced,  go  to  the  villages  and  cottages 
of  France  and  England  and  Prussia.  Count  all  the  broken 
hearts  it  made — trace  out  the  secret  and  open  suffering  that  ends 
not  with  the  day  that  saw  its  birth — and,  last  of  all,  go  on  to  the 
judgment  and  imagine  the  souls  that  went  from  Waterloo  and  its 
fierce  conflict  to  the  rewards  of  Eternity  ;  and  then  measure,  if 
you  can,  the  length  and  breadth  and  depth  and  height  of  that 
cursed  ambition  which  made  Napoleon  a  minister  of  death  to  his 
race.  His  wild  heart  sleeps  at  last,  and  Nature  smiles  again 
around  Waterloo,  and  the  rich  grain  waves  as  carelessly  as  if 
nothing  had  happened.  That  Providence  which  never  sleeps  fix- 
ed the  limits  of  that  proud  man,  and  finally  left  the  "  desolator 
desolate"  to  eat  out  his  own  heart  on  the  rock  of  Helena. 

The  field  is  covered  with  monuments  to  the  dead,  and  a  huge 
pyramid,  surmounted  by  a  lion,  rises  from  the  centre  of  the  plain. 
One  monument  tells  where  the  Scotch  Greys  stood  and  were  cut 
down,  almost  to  a  man — another  points  to  the  grave  of  Shaw,  who 
killed  nine  Frenchmen  before  he  fell.  The  little  church  in  the 
village  of  Waterloo  is  filled  with  tablets  commemorating  the  dead. 
One  struck  me  forcibly.  On  it  was  recorded  the  death  of  a  man 
belonging  to  Wellington's  suite.  He  was  only  eighteen  years  of 
age,  and  this  was  his  twentieth  battle.  I  never  was  more  im- 
pressed with  the  brutality  of  the  soldier  than  when  my  guide 
told  me  that  he  himself  went  over  the  field  in  search  of  plunder, 
the  morning  after  the  battle,  and  all  he  could  find  among  the  thou- 
sands of  corpses  was  one  old  silver  watch. 


138  MARQUIS  OF  ANGLESEA'S  LEG. 

My  companion  the  English  captain  would  go  and  see  the  grave 
of  the  Marquis  of  Anglesea's  leg^  which  has  a  separate  monument 
erected  to  it.  The  Marquis  visited  the  field  of  battle  a  short 
time  since,  and  had  the  pleasure  of  reading  the  epitaph  of  his  own 
leg.  Taking  no  particular  interest  in  the  Marquis's  lower  ex- 
tremities, whether  off  or  on,  I  did  not  see  this  monument. 


7 


GENERAL  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA— BERKELEY 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or  on  the 

date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


LIBRARy  us  J 

"^^^3  0  1954 

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